Foreign and Domestic
by dferveiro
Summary: Now Complete! Sydney helps Sark track down his family after the inevitable happens and she must decide if she's willing to make the sacrifices Sark has, before he makes the biggest sacrifice of all. Sequel to Ultimate Sacrifice and Choice.
1. Default Chapter

Foreign and Domestic

_"Choice" and "Ultimate Sacrifice" detail __Sark__'s__ discovery that he wants out of the spy life, which he purposely chose. He discovers his family, and has to balance who they know him as and who __Sark__ is, all while defending the ones he loves from ambitious organizations. In the end of "Ultimate Sacrifice," __Sark__ and __Sydney__ both want to make their complex relationship work. It'd be best to go back and read the previous two stories if you want to understand everything, but if not, this background should get you through. This story follows __Sydney__ more than __Sark__, but there will be plenty of both to see._

_Sydney works for the CIA, and so does Dixon, Marshall, etc.__ Sloane and Rambaldi have no place in this story, and neither does SD-6—not that they didn't happen, but let's face it: that stuff just complicates a story to hell and back._

Another Day, Another Crisis

            Sydney could hardly hide her smile as she drove to work. 

            "I'm looking forward to it," she heard that incredibly smooth and sexy accent say. "Sure, it's just a day of his college classes, but it's different."

            "I'm sure Calvin's excited," Sydney said, holding back a laugh. "You show off to him all the time, and now he can do the same."

            "What do you mean?" Sark asked. His tone was defensive but playful. "I don't show off."

            She laughed, rolling her eyes. 

            "Whatever—you know you do. Between sparring and your target practice, you show off daily," Sydney chided him. "And what's sad is that he eats it up."

            She heard him chuckle as he acknowledged her accuracy. It was true—Calvin followed his older brother like an eager puppy. She knew Calvin admired the spy life and the skills. Luckily, Sark continually brought to light the negatives of such a life. It was entertaining to watch them squabble about it, especially since it was normally about Calvin wanting to see Sark show off. Sark's usual declines to that always struck Sydney as false—he wanted to show off as much as he could. She smiled at that thought.

            "When are you coming out here?" he asked. Sydney sighed to herself, and turned her car right.

            "Well, I'm about to go in for a briefing, so I assume this weekend's out," she started.

            "Sydney—"

            "Sark, please, let's not go through this again." She let go of the wheel to put a hand to her forehead, as if shielding herself from a headache.

            "Every week you're out on some assignment because the CIA isn't willing to try something without you." She heard him huff over the phone. "Sydney, you're supposed to be on an emergency-only basis. They're clearly abusing that!"

            "Sark, you know how this life is. I can't control what will pop up," she argued. She heard his voice almost leap, as he always did when she'd opened herself up for him to make his point. She cringed and prepared herself for it.

            "Yes, you can. You can say 'no,' Sydney." The standard silence followed as he let his point sink in. "I realize you want to be patriotic and all, but—"  

            "It's not just patriotism, and I don't expect you to understand." She unleashed the words, knowing their meaning would hurt. She sighed to herself. _Why does this always go wrong?_

            "I, being a terrorist, could hardly understand," Sark said predictably. He sighed again, and Sydney could almost hear his thoughts. She knew he was deciding whether to engage in her defensive baiting.

            Sydney swallowed. "Look," she said. "I'm pulling into work. Have fun with Calvin." It came out half-hearted, but she knew Sark understood that at least she was backing off.

            The past few months had been . . . stressful. The CIA kept her plenty busy, and she added to that with her getaways to Toronto. The relationship between her and Sark . . . she never had any complaints, but lately it just felt strained. She knew she loved him.

            But was it all worth it? Were they dragging out something that would inevitably fail?

            "Sydney," Dixon said as she walked in the Joint Task Force Center. "Sorry to bring you in again, especially so soon after the Congo op."

            Sydney waved a hand at him. "Don't worry about it. What's up?" She joined Weiss and Vaughn in the briefing room, and plopped down in a chair next to Weiss. 

            "If you notice, the sparse numbers here in this briefing indicate more intel on our mole," Dixon began.

            The three younger agents' faces instantly went grim. Just then, Jack Bristow joined the briefing.

            "Sorry, I didn't know we were starting," he said insincerely. Jack took his spot around the table.

            "The mole," Dixon continued, "as you know, is leaking intel to other nations' intelligence organizations, such as Britain, France and Russia."

            Jack picked up Dixon's line of thought.

            "The leaked information has been uniform to all the agencies," he said. "And it's not damaging to the United States. It's more sharing information about terrorists."

            "We believe the mole is basically a self-righteous middle-level agent," Dixon said bluntly. Weiss snorted at that. "The mole seems to think he's doing good by leaking this intel, so other intelligence agencies can apprehend the terrorists."

            From the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Marshall teetering as he came tearing around a corner, running for the briefing room.

            He entered breathless and stammering.

            "Dix—Director Dixon," he said, heaving. "I-I just intercepted a transmission from the mole!"

            The others stared at him, waiting for Marshall to continue to the point. He turned around and made sure the door was shut.

            "It was about Mr. Sark!" His exasperated declaration made Sydney sit up straight in her chair.

            "What?" she asked. Marshall waved his hands in the air, as if wafting more to him so he could speak.

            "A transmission—the message—" Suddenly he stopped and started digging through his pockets. "I printed it."

            Jack snatched the paper out of Marshall's hands and turned to his daughter. He put the message in front of all the agents. They read it quickly in silence.

            _International terrorist 'Mr. Sark' alive.__ Suspected residence in __Toronto__._

            Sydney could hear thundering blood rush to her head. She placed both her hands out in front of her, trying to steady herself. She didn't even read the rest of the transmission.

            "How could anyone know?" she whispered.

            "You knew?" Marshall asked, perplexed. Weiss stood up immediately to educate Marshall on past events.

            "Sydney," Jack said, "Marshall intercepted it, so Sark's safe."

            "Um, that's not exactly true."

            Jack turned slowly to glare at Marshall. The tech wiz cringed.

            "The message was sent three times. I stopped the ones to France and Russia, but . . . MI6 has it," he said gloomily.

            "Marshall," Sydney started, her voice eerily cold, "who sent the transmission?"  
  
  
  
Vaughn interfered with her attempts to pummel the mole, which Sydney figured was lucky for the glory-seeking twerp. Dixon was already getting charges ready, while Sydney felt ready to forgo the jury and join the firing squad.

            Jack pulled her aside amidst her fury.

            "Sydney," he said, getting her to focus on him.

            "Dad, we have to warn Sark. The transmission didn't detail his exact location, but MI6 will—"

            "Sydney, before you do anything, you have to understand something." She didn't miss the gravity in her father's voice.

            "What?" she asked softly. Jack shifted his gaze to the side, as he often did before launching into potentially ill news.

            "The CIA can't step in to protect Sark," he said. "While Dixon and I both know Sark is alive, there is no official pardon."

            _Of course_, Sydney thought. _Everyone thinks __Sark__ is dead. _"Does that mean the CIA will go after him?"

            Jack shifted his gaze again. "I don't know. But Dixon, Weiss, Vaughn and now Marshall all know Sark is alive. The real concern is MI6."

            Sydney felt a wave of tingles prickle her skin. "I have to warn him." She grabbed her cell phone, dialing the number as fast as her fingers would allow her. Jack watched, and Sydney noted his concern. _At least he's not so opposed to __Sark__ anymore._

            The line rang twice, and then forwarded to an automated voicemail that Sydney knew Sark didn't check. _"How many former terrorists have voicemail?" _he had complained. _"Besides, I get too many wrong numbers as it is."_

            Sark rarely missed her calls. Worry rose up through Sydney like bile. _Am I too late?_

            "He's not answering," she said to Jack, looking for reassurance. "There's no way they could get to him so quickly, right?" And then it hit her. Sydney shut her eyes. _No. Could he?_

            "What is it, Sydney?"

            She opened her eyes, taking in Jack's stern face. "We . . . had a disagreement this morning. He may not be answering for a reason." Her shoulders sagged for a moment, and then she called Sark again.

            No answer.

            "Dad . . ."

            "Go, quickly," he said. Jack flashed her a tight smile and Sydney left with a dozen thoughts and feelings flowing through her.  
  
  
  
Sark swallowed a yawn as he and Calvin emerged from a supernaturally boring class.

            "So what did you think?" Calvin asked without hiding his eagerness. Sark gave his brother a sarcastic grin.

            "There's a reason I never went to college."

            Calvin's face went to his insta-pout, but he eventually laughed it off. "Yeah, well, look where that got you."

            Sark smiled tightly and nodded. _None of them will ever forget it. _Not that he expected his family or Sydney to forget what he used to be, but he did imagine some forgiveness to level off the snide remarks every now and then.

            Sark shook off the comment. Calvin meant no harm.

            "Do you mind if I skip your next class?" he asked. It wasn't really a question. There was no way he was sitting through another butt-numbing lecture. 

            "Fine," Calvin said, sighing his mock disappointment. "Where are you going?"

            Sark started off towards his car. "Mom and Dad's. I'll see you later back at the apartment."

            He drove, taking solace in the quiet hum of his Honda Accord. It wasn't the most luxurious car, but it was less conspicuous than the normal Mercedes. _Besides, it beats a Ford Focus_.

            Sydney had called, twice. Sark was well-aware of the phone vibrating during Calvin's classes. But he couldn't bring himself to answer it.

            Over the last few months, he couldn't help but feel unimportant. Not that he wanted to be the focus of everything—been there, done that, had the scars to prove it—but he felt discarded by Sydney. Her determination to constantly be the American hero drove Sark mad. Between that and her stubbornness to stay with the CIA and a life she used to openly hate, Sark wondered why they were even together.

            _That's the problem. We're hardly ever together_. 

            And that's what hurt the most. Sark didn't know what else to do to make up for his past or to draw Sydney to a normal life. He was essentially helpless in the matter.

            Sark sighed. He picked up his cell phone, ready to call Sydney as he pulled up to his parents' home.

            And when he saw the busted front door, he dropped the phone in his lap. He stopped the car with a screech, and grabbed the gun under his seat.  

            His heart hammered to escape his chest. Who could be here now? And why his parents?

            Splinters of the doorway littered the hall. The house was dark, though the vague Canadian sun was still out. Sark flicked off the safety, and held the gun ahead of him. He held his breath and listened.

            _Water_. He moved towards it, toward the kitchen. The water sounded like it was running, not full force, but not dripping either. Sark peeked around the corner, and advanced.

            His eyes darted to each side, around every possible ambush in the kitchen. But he saw no one. 

            The faucet was running. Sark moved to it, his eyes still swiveling for the unseen. The water spilled into a mixing bowl, and then overflowed into the sink. 

            His foot kicked something, and Sark almost shot it. It was a knife, just a standard kitchen knife. He bent down to examine it. The blade was clean, not wet or used or anything.

            _Mom must have grabbed it to scare them off._ But where was she now? 

            Sark searched each room. Upstairs was untouched, but the living room was not. The coffee table was shattered, and books were strewn across the floor. Sark's feet crunched on top of glass, not from the coffee table, but a picture frame.

            He picked it up. It was a photo of his family, just after they'd moved to Canada. The photo had been ripped. Sark was missing from the photo, no doubt taken by the intruders.

            _Which means it's me they're after_.

            _Not again._  
  
  
  
Sark was speeding back to the city as he called Ilene.

            "Come on, pick up," he muttered as the phone rang. It just kept ringing, until Sark got a message.

            He tossed his phone aside and floored the Honda for all it was worth.

            Her apartment had been invaded as well. Sark quickly ran through it, double-checking just in case there was something.

            He found it on the stove. Ilene must have been cooking when she was taken. An egg was bubbling in a frying pan. Sark turned the stove off. 

            He stared at the egg.

            _It's not burnt._ He'd just missed Ilene.

            _Calvin._

            "Hey," his brother answered without a care in the world.

            "Don't go to the apartment," Sark commanded. He was back in his car.

            "What's wrong?"

            Sark almost screamed. "Don't question me, just don't go home."

            "Julian, I'm headed up the stairs right now."

            _Crap!_

            "Hide in Dan's apartment. Don't leave there until I come get you, understand?" Sark's fingers were cold and sweaty, and they clutched his phone so tight that it was starting to slip out of his grasp.

            "Okay, but what's going on?" Calvin asked, confused as ever.

            "Mom, Dad, and Ilene are all gone—taken," he said grimly. There was silence on the other end. "I'm a block away, Cal. Stay at Dan's."

            "Okay."  
  
  
  
The makings of a trap were all present outside his building. Sark saw the tactical van, no windows, and no doubt full of surveillance equipment. A tall blonde man with a large nose stood outside the entrance, reading a paper.

            _Brilliant cover, moron_. But they were here. _What about Mom and Dad? Could they be here? _ He shook his head as he drove past his building and turned into a parking garage across the street. Any remotely smart person wouldn't bring them to the next target. 

            _Three separate teams? _Sark shook his head again. It didn't matter how they planned the attacks. It just mattered that his brother was trapped inside the building, and that whoever these enemy were, they waited inside his apartment.

            The parking garage connected to his building's garage. Both buildings were constructed by the same development company, and for whatever reason, the garages connected beneath the street. That worked to his favor, but he knew the enemy could know just as well.

            Sark grabbed a baseball cap from the back seat, and pulled it tightly over his hair. He drove through, circling the garage near the stairs to the apartments. No one guarded the access but Sark did spot someone reading another blatant newspaper by the elevators. Sark smirked at that.

            There was a reason why he taught his family not to use the elevators.

            Sark parked by the stairs and ducked into the stairwell without drawing Newspaper Boy's attention.

            He took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the third floor, he tightened his jacket around him, concealing his gun a bit better. For now, though this wasn't his floor, he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention. 

            He knocked on the door, waiting for Dan to answer.

            The unkempt 20-year-old did, his face tired and scruffy. 

            "Cal, your brother's here," he said over his shoulder. Dan turned and walked off, completely unaware of the urgency.

            Sark shut the door behind him as Calvin appeared. Calvin sighed loudly and hugged his brother.

            "Do you think someone's looking for you?" Cal asked quietly. Dan was involved in a video game. 

            Sark's icy eyes stared into his brother. "I know they are. They're in the building, waiting up in our apartment."

            Calvin's eyes widened and his lower jaw dropped. "Serious?"

            Sark didn't grace that with an answer. He considered going up to confront the enemies, but his odds weren't favorable. Plus, he knew his parents and Ilene weren't up there. _And Calvin would be left here, potentially in danger._ He nodded to himself.

            "Let's go."

            Sark turned and opened the door. He looked down the hallway, both ways, and pulled Calvin out behind him.

            "Quickly," he muttered to Calvin. They moved down the hall. Sark kept his head tilted to the ground. The security in the building wasn't state-of-the-art, but there were cameras, and he bet someone had tapped into that feed now.

            He was right.

            As they reached the stairwell, Sark heard thundering footsteps above.

            "Move in, now! East stairwell!!"

            Sark grabbed Calvin and shoved him toward the stairs. He whipped out his gun, ready to return fire if necessary.

            They ran down the stairs, Calvin more falling than running. The men were closing in.

            Sark glanced over the railing as they neared the parking garage. Two men were coming up. He'd be trapped, with Calvin too. Sark glanced up and back down at the threats. Without another thought, he flicked off the safety.

            "Stay close behind me, Cal," Sark ordered, jumping ahead of his brother. There was only one switchback in the staircase separating Sark from the men below. He grabbed the railing and leapt over it.

            His feet landed squarely on a stair, and Sark fired. Two shots, in quick succession, each finding their mark. The two men fell. Sark turned and grabbed his brother, who was predictably stunned.

            They ran to the Accord, and Sark floored the gas before he even shifted into drive. The tires squealed as they tore through the parking lot.

            A variety of men seemed to appear at every turn. They fired, short bursts of light and bullets. Calvin ducked in his seat as Sark turned hard for another route.

            He headed for the nearest exit. He could see daylight, just within—

            A black SUV sped in his way, turning to block the exit completely. Sark was only seconds away from impact, but he yanked up on the emergency brake and pulled the wheel to the left.

            He floored it again and moved for the way he came in. A window shattered. Calvin yelped.

            "Keep your head down!" Sark yelled. The SUV was chasing them now. It moved out of view of his rear-view mirror, and Sark saw it try to pull along side his car.

            He hit a button, and his side window rolled down. Sark studied the side-view mirror as he stuck his arm and gun out the window. He aimed using the reflection.

            He fired four shots, two of which actually hit the front right tire of the SUV. The black vehicle cut left and hit some parked cars. 

            Sark smirked, a momentary victory, and sped up for the exit. He heard shots behind him, but he knew it was useless. 

            The car leapt over the dips of the garage as he left it and joined traffic on the roads. Several horns honked at him as he cut off more than one vehicle, but it didn't matter.

            He made it, with Calvin intact.

            He expected his brother to swear, cry, or yell. Maybe even silence as shock set in. Calvin, though, had a tendency to surprise Sark every now and then.

            "How come you haven't taught me how to drive like that?"


	2. Gathering Intel

Gathering Intel

            Of all the things in the world at those critical moments where life and death were at stake, weather was the stumbling block.

            And for several hours, it ticked Sydney off.

            She drummed her fingers on the crumb-covered tabletop in the café. People milled around, groaning at the delay at LAX.

            Sark hadn't called, which Sydney took as a good sign. _If anything had happened, he would have called._

            _Should I call him?_

            She sighed as she dialed his number. _Please pick up._

            Her heart jumped when he did.

            "Sydney!" He sounded excited, which seemed like a good—"What the hell is going on!"

            She could hear his ragged breath, and dread filled her body. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. British intelligence knows you're alive and in Toronto." Something made her pause, some horror or realization that she couldn't identify. "What happened?"

            "Gee, nice of you to let me know. They've taken my parents and Ilene!" His anger wasn't lost on her.

            "Listen, I just found out—" she tried to explain.

            "When? They must have known for awhile, because they hit Ilene's and my parents' house close together, as if they were ready for it," Sark shouted in her ear. "They almost caught Calvin and me!"

            She knew he was shocked at this intrusion, especially after all he'd already sacrificed to set up this life under the radar. But Sydney didn't take blame very easily.

            "Don't act like I didn't try to warn you, Julian," she said, her tone seething with his name. She only used Julian when she was truly miffed, much like a mother using a full name. "I tried calling you about the intel leak, but you didn't answer the phone! On purpose!"

            Sark immediately objected to that, but Sydney saw through the lie.

            "Oh please, you always answer your phone. You knew it was me!" _Calm down, Syd!_ She bit her tongue and took a quick breath. "Look, right now there are more important things to do. Where are you?"

            Sark didn't answer right away but Sydney could hear him breathing. "We're at one of Irina's abandoned safe houses outside Toronto." She shut her eyes, relieved that survival mode had kicked in with Sark.

            "I'm trying to get out to you, but there are storm delays in the east," she said. "Can you make it here?"

            "No offense, Syd, but you said the information was leaked, which means by someone at CIA. I'm not about to head out there to facilitate whatever the hell is going on."

            She sighed. Sark was implying that someone they knew gave him up, and maybe he was even questioning her. She knew he didn't mean it, but the remark made a dent.

            "Meet me in Vancouver. The northbound flights are still operating. I'll be there in a few hours."

            "What if my family's still here?" Sark pointed out. "I can't be across the country and get them back."

            "And you can't stay there and risk getting caught," Sydney shot back. She sighed again. "Let's meet in Vancouver, and I'll find out what I can about the leak."

            "Fine," he said. "I'll call you when we land." He hung up without saying goodbye.

            Sydney clenched her teeth. _Time to find a flight_.

            It bugged her that Sark was so defensive and irate. But it worried her when he would find out everything.

            She knew there was a mole. While she didn't know who it was or that he'd get to Sark, Sydney knew Sark would be upset that such a risk existed without his knowledge.

            _But how could I have guessed that someone would find out about __Sark__?_ _How _did_ he find out about __Sark__?_

            The flight was boarding, but Sydney had time for one more phone call.

            "This is Dixon."

            "Dixon, it's Sydney," she said. "What else have we learned from the mole?"

            She heard him sigh. "This guy is a real piece of work," he started. "He actually noticed you were 'on-leave' frequently. He got curious—or nosy, in my opinion—and monitored your cell phone."

            "He could do that?!" _What access did the goon have?! And I thought my phone was untraceable!_

            "Yes, Sydney, and he obviously went too far. But he overheard you talking to Sark, and tracked you to a home in Hamilton."

            "Sark's parents' home," she thought aloud. "They must have hit there first."

            "What?" Dixon said, surprised. It was her turn to sigh.

            "Someone got to Sark's parents, and his sister. He said he barely missed getting caught himself." She winced as she said it. Though she knew she had no control over this irritating mole, it bothered her that she was the one to lead him to Sark and his family.

            "Sydney," Dixon said, "what are you going to do?"

            "I'm flying out to meet him, and we're going to find him," she said. "Dixon, if it's MI6, how can we help him?"

            He didn't say anything for several moments, during which Sydney felt her body tighten.

            "Syd, I want to help," he started as her heart fell. "But officially we cannot recognize that we consciously let him go. Your father is already under scrutiny because he didn't kill Sark like people believed."

            She knew the ramifications of the CIA stepping in, and knew it wasn't possible. But she expected some support.

            "Dixon, I'm going to need help going up against MI6," Sydney said. "I can't leave Sark out there with nothing." Inside she was screaming. _Dad warned me, but come on!_ She didn't want to be left alone.

            "I wish I could help, but as Director of the CIA, to do so could jeopardize more than myself," he said. He had that official tone, and Sydney realized she was talking to her boss now, and not an old friend. But the tone softened. "Sydney, I will not allow the CIA to actively pursue Sark. And I cannot order you against your will to not help him."

            It was as close as she would get for a blessing on her new personal mission.

            "Thanks, Dixon. I'll be away for awhile," she said. A flight attendant announced her flight, and Sydney hung up the phone.

            She stewed over the facts as she flew to Vancouver. Actually, the facts didn't seem to matter as much as her anger. How many times had she risked her life and the lives of others to help the CIA? Not just the CIA, but to do good!! Time after time, threats were neutralized as Sydney came close to death.

            Was it too much to ask to have a little help now? _Screw the official lines_, she thought. _Sark__ is good now, and __Dixon__ knows it. _How many times had they "pardoned" or let serious criminals get away because of some deal—and those men never changed!

            And Sark had changed. But so many looked at that with a blind eye.  
  
--------  
  
            "I'm so glad to be off that plane," Calvin said, casting a glance over his shoulder at the tiny Cessna. Sark smirked.

            "Squeamish, are you?" he chided. Not that he blamed his brother. His stomach was grumbling from all the turbulence.

            "I'm not hungry, at least," Calvin said. And that was a miracle indeed. The kid could seriously pack down a lot of food. Sark realized that as he figured how much he was spending each month. _Good thing I have more than enough for all our lifetimes._

            Sark called Sydney. Her phone forwarded automatically to her voicemail. He sighed.

            "She hasn't landed yet," he announced to his brother. "Where should we go?" Calvin looked ahead to the city beyond the airport.

            "One of my friends said something about Vanier. There's a park, a museum . . ." Calvin said. "It'd be crowded."

            "I hope so," Sark said, looking at the sky. It was beyond dusk, and Sark wondered how many people would be out in the dark. "Let's head there."

            Sydney called as he drove to Vanier Park.

            "We shouldn't linger on the line too long," was the first thing she said.

            "Okay," Sark said hesitantly. It was never comforting for a spy to say that, especially when they supposedly had measures in place. "Go to Vanier Park. As soon as you can get there."

            And then she hung up. It was odd behavior, even for Sydney. But he went with it.

            She explained it all when they met outside the space museum near the park. Sark, of course, wanted to kill the mole slowly, but he knew that wasn't a priority right now. Neither was his irritation for Sydney not telling him about the mole. _She has her job, after all._ He shook his head clear.

            "So was it indeed MI6 that came after us?" he asked. Calvin stood stiffly, just trying to follow everything.

            Sydney shook her head. "I don't know for sure."

            "Well, find out," Sark said sharply. He regretted the commanding tone, but only slightly. It wasn't time for niceties.

            Sydney looked reluctant. Her eyes studied the ground and she tucked her hair behind her right ear.

            "It's not that simple," she said. Sark stared at her, waiting for whatever caused her hesitation. "The CIA will not help."

            He breathed out. "Of course not. It's the CIA." It wasn't a surprise at all, but he was slightly amused that Sydney seemed to expect such help.

            "Well, not even Dixon will help me. Not even as a friend," she said. He noted the sorrow in her voice, and the disappointment.

            "Sydney, I am still a criminal at large," he said, grabbing her shoulders to catch her focus. "Did you really expect them to help?"

            She shrugged off his hold and flipped her jacket collar up against a wind. Sark noticed what she wore—it was simple, but in that beautiful way that only Sydney could pull off. She had a khaki jacket that fell to mid-thigh, covering part of her dark cargos. It was almost camouflage-attire, but sexy.

            _And you're focusing your thoughts where?_ Sark cleared his throat.

            "I guess I just thought after everything I've done, that they'd step up and help," she replied softly. "Instead, they're acting like they never purposely decided to let you go. Deniability, I guess."

            "One of the joys of terrorism for hire," Sark quipped. "There are no legal issues to consider or rules to follow." He took in her appearance again and smiled. "Have I told you how devastatingly attractive you are?"

            Calvin coughed at that.

            "Anyway," Sark said, continuing on before she could even blush, "I'm glad you're here, Sydney."

            "How do we find out who has Mom and Dad?" Calvin asked. Sark looked to Sydney for suggestions. Of the two of them, she was the one still connected to the world of international espionage.

            She pulled out her phone, and called Jack Bristow.

--------            Jack called back as Sydney, Sark and Calvin sat in the corner booth of a bar. Sark's eyes kept darting around, something Sydney found humorous until she remembered that his life and Calvin's were just as much at stake.

            _But if it is MI6, they won't hurt his family._

_            Will they?_

            "Dad," she answered the phone.

            "Sydney," he said back. "I have some more information." She looked up hopefully at the brothers in front of her. She saw Sark gulp and nod.

            "Go ahead."

            "The mole was in contact with an Agent Alan Yielding, from MI6. That's who became the main contact over the months that the mole was leaking intel."

            "Alan Yielding," Sydney repeated aloud. Sark raised an eyebrow at it, but waited for Sydney to get off the phone to explain.

            "I called in a favor. Yielding is a skilled agent, highly respected but often under cover." Jack paused. "He's basically the equivalent of you to the British intelligence agencies."

            It was a compliment, because she knew how good she was. But it was meant to sober her up as she realized what she was up against.

            "Are his actions sanctioned by MI6?" Sydney asked. It'd be easier if he was a rogue agent of sorts, but something told her that was wishful thinking.

            "Yes. MI6 should have notified us of the leak, but diplomacy doesn't seem to be a concern. They've used the intel to go after various terrorists," Jack said. "They even apprehended a former KGB assassin."

            "Good for them," Sydney said dryly. Jack cleared his throat.

            "Anyway, Agent Yielding seems diligent in his pursuit of Sark. He was standing by for confirmation that Sark was alive, and for his location."

            "Which is how they moved in so fast—within hours of the intel being sent," Sydney said. "How did you find all this out?" She was surprised at how much her dad delivered, and this info especially would help her.

            "I interrogated the mole," Jack said in his deadpan voice. Sydney swallowed.

            "Thanks, Dad."

            "Sydney," he said, "Be careful. I've seen Yielding's file. He's highly motivated when it comes to Sark."

            _Highly motivated?_

            "Dad, what do you mean?"

            "Ask Sark about when he stole a formula from Geneva, about four years ago," Jack said cryptically. "Yielding has reason to go after Sark."


	3. Detainment

Detainment

            "Why do you idiots keep going after my brother!" Ilene's red hair shined under the low-hanging lights of their basic cell. Her nose twitched as she squinted her eyes in a challenge.

            Her parents sat beside her, while a couple of suited men sat across the metal table.

            "Your brother is an international fugitive, a terrorist," one man said. He was tall. His knees had banged against the table when he sat down. Ilene had laughed at that, and he seemed to be holding a grudge.

            "Oh please," Ilene said, sighing overdramatically. Her father, Henry, crossed his arms in front of his fleshy chest.

            "We've known for some time that Julian isn't a saint," he said, his voice deeper than usual. "He's given it all up."

            The tall man huffed. "I doubt that, but even so, the rest of the world hasn't given up the consequences. Mr. Sark must pay for what he's done."

            "Why are we here?" Ilene's mother, Barbara, asked. "Who are you?"

            The man stood. "I'm with British Intelligence. We've wanted Sark for some time. You're here as . . . incentive."

            Ilene snorted. "You should talk with the last person who tried that." The man cocked his head to the side.

            "You're not prisoners," the man continued. "Consider this a debriefing, so we can learn more about Mr. Sark."

            "If we're not prisoners," Barbara began, "why did you kidnap us?"

            "Detained," the man corrected. "We _detained_ you, as I said, for a debriefing—for information."

            "What information?" Ilene asked. "You already forced us to tell you where he lives."

            The man's eyes narrowed and he leaned over the table, glaring into Ilene's blue eyes. She noticed his eyes were green.

            "You claim your brother's changed," he said slowly, his accent smoothing out the obvious ripples of hatred for Sark. "But yet he killed several of my government's agents."

            Barbara tried to hide a gasp; she'd never really seen Sark act out firsthand, nothing beyond his sparring with Calvin. Henry grunted, but Ilene huffed again.

            "If someone was trying to catch you, would you just lie down and wait for a bullet?" she asked. Her bold manner kept catching the agent off-guard. He narrowed his eyes, but a smile crept over his lips. "You would have done the same thing he did."

            "I'd like a moment alone with Miss Defiance," the agent announced. The other agent, a short blonde man, shot him a look. "Now," the tall agent reinforced strongly.

            "Fine, Alan," the short agent conceded. He motioned for Ilene's parents to stand. They started to protest, but the agent shushed them. "We're just going to another room," he said.

            When they were alone, the agent just continued to stare at Ilene.

            "What, Agent Alan?" she mocked. A knowing smile crept on his lips.

            "Agent Yielding," he corrected. He seemed to like doing that. "Alan is my first name."

            Ilene leaned forward, challenging again just inches from his face. "What is it, Agent Yielding?"

            "I'd like to tell you a story, Ilene." It was the first time he'd actually used her first name. It caught her attention, which was his point, she guessed.

            "Four years ago, a man named Sean infiltrated a dangerous team of thieves and murderers."

            "Sounds terrifying," Ilene said, faking a yawn. Suddenly Agent Yielding raised his arm and slammed his fist on the metal table. It shook from the impact.

            "Listen," the agent demanded. "The team was responsible for stealing millions-worth of information, in addition to money and irreplaceable items. They killed anyone in their way." He paused, but his emerald eyes never left Ilene's. "They resold what they took, and did jobs for hire.

            "Sean gained their trust and was taken along for a job in Geneva," Yielding pressed on. Ilene didn't move. "They stole a formula for a chemical. The chemical, when released properly into the air, could kill any living thing within 100 meters. Sean couldn't just let the team take it and risk all the innocent people out there. So he changed the data, corrupted it."

            Ilene didn't want to admit it, but she was interested in what happened. "So?" She tried to be indifferent, but the smirk on Yielding's face seemed to indicate otherwise.

            "The team resold the formula. And the buyer figured out it had been altered," Yielding said. His voice dropped suddenly and he paused, as if controlling some primal emotion. "The buyer had worked with this team several times before. He guessed Sean was responsible. So he confronted Sean.

            "Sean went to meet the team for another job, but they weren't there. Sean figured he was early, and went inside to wait. Someone shot him from behind in the knees. Sean fell on his face, but must have turned over to face the shooter. It was the buyer. He shot Sean several times. One in each arm, almost at the elbows. Once in the stomach. Once in the chest. And two final shots, each in the head."

            Agent Yielding stopped. He sat back as if exhausted. He took a breath. "We found surveillance outside that building. On it, your brother comes out, removes dark gloves and calmly places sunglasses on his face," he said, the venom coming through his words. "As if it were nothing. Just another thing on the to-do list. He was completely without remorse."

            Ilene didn't know how to react. It was obvious Yielding's hatred stemmed from this event. She didn't approve, but she yelled to herself that her brother wasn't that man anymore.

            "I'm sorry," she said quietly and with a trace of respect. "Who was Sean to you?"

            "He was an agent for my government," he whispered. "My friend. We both entered the field at the same time, six years ago."

            Ilene nodded and stayed quiet as she thought.

            "My brother has done some awful things," she said. Yielding looked fueled by this admission, nodding at her. "I've seen some of them firsthand. And it's scared me." She took a deep breath. "But he's not a cold-blooded killer anymore."

            Yielding's whole face seemed to darken.

            "He'll get what he deserves."

--------  
  
            Calvin ate a burger half-heartedly. The fries were cold and soggy, but he obviously wasn't focusing on that.

            Sydney watched him munch, staring ahead at the beige wall of the motel room. Sark was in the shower. He hadn't said much since he figured out the connection with MI6.

            It had shocked Calvin, and it was an unpleasant reminder of Sark's unconscionable actions. Sydney's heart ached for him. She knew Sark hated himself for what he used to be. She also saw the anger within him for those actions causing him and his family more grief now.

            Calvin wadded up the burger's wrapper and chucked it in the general vicinity of the trash can. He sighed as he missed, and pulled himself to his feet. The heavy burdens over him were more than evident.

            "Are you all right?" Sydney asked, tilting her head to the side in concern. Calvin nodded automatically, then paused.

            "No," he admitted. He picked up the wrapper and dropped it in the garbage. He glanced at the bathroom, as if making sure the door was still shut.

            "Want to talk about it?" Sydney offered. Calvin shrugged but meandered to her. They sat opposite each other on the beds.

            He shrugged again and ran a hand through his hair. It caught Sydney's eye. _Sark__ does that whenever he's stressed._

            "I guess I'm just worried about my parents, and Ilene," Calvin said. Though he said it, his eyes still looked full of worry. Sydney had a feeling his concerns had more to do with the latest development than his family.

            "Are you surprised about this agent and your brother's history with him?" she asked. Calvin nodded.

            "I just wish people from his old life would see what he's been through. I mean, he wants to leave it behind, but no one will let it go," Calvin said. He swallowed. "Maybe it just makes me upset to think about what Julian used to do."

            "Especially after all this time of moving on," Sydney said. She understood Calvin. He had just been thrown into the heat of the intelligence world, and probably had seen Sark in serious action. Calvin had let all that go before, but now the shock and doubt seemed to resurface. _Factor in his family's kidnapping, and he's bound to be uneasy._

            "Does it bother you, Sydney?" Calvin asked. He looked up at her, and even though they were even in height; his head craned up to look to her, as she was a mentor.

            She thought about it. Sure, the crimes and cruelty Sark had dealt out were never pleasant to look back on. However, the resurfacing of the past wasn't washing away her confidence and trust in him.

            But this crisis made her question their relationship, again. How could she and Sark ever make it work when enemies from the past kept popping up and throwing him back in the deep-ended evils of the intelligence world? Did she love him enough to stick with him in all of that, and to be dragged with him when he adopted traits that were necessary but also bad?

            "It used to," Sydney said finally, for Calvin's benefit. "But Sark has moved beyond that. So should we." Calvin nodded, but still looked puzzled.

            "Why do you still call him 'Sark'?"

            Sydney muffled a quick laugh. "I call him Julian sometimes," she said. "But I've always known him as Sark. It just sticks with you."

            Calvin thought that over, and he smiled sadly.

            "You know, when he first came back, we were careful around him," he said. "We knew he wasn't the same Julian. And when he finally told us about Sark, it was all so . . . bad. Mom separated Sark from Julian. And it kind of passed to all of us."

            "So when you hear or say Sark, you mean that as the old Sark, the one with the bad past," Sydney said. He nodded, and Sydney sighed. "One thing I figured out, after we got Ilene back . . . Your brother beat himself up trying to push Sark away. But without Sark, he can't survive. And without Julian, Sark loses what matters most. Both sides of him, when together, are good."

            She stared pointedly at him. She watched as Calvin began to smile.

            "I'm still calling him Julian, though," he said.  
  
--------  
  
            Ilene paced the "debriefing" room. She thought it was quite odd that it had a cot to sleep on, and yet they still referred to it as merely for detaining.

            _Bureaucratic lies. They probably can't legally hold us like this._

            But Ilene sensed that they really didn't care. _Almost as if the rules don't apply to them._ Her parents were in another cell, sitting dejectedly on the cot. Her father spent most of the time just comforting his wife. Ilene couldn't help but smirk.

            _This is nothing compared to last time._

            Agent Yielding reentered the "debriefing" room. He'd asked for her to be separated again. But he held a tray of food. Ilene's eyes grazed over it. Croissant sandwiches, lemonade, salad . . .

            "These are much better conditions than my last kidnapping," she said aloud.

            Agent Yielding shot her a look.

            "We've covered this. You're being debriefed—"

            "Call it what you want, Yielding," Ilene said quickly. "I've been held against my will before, and though this cell is nicer, it doesn't make up for your abuses of power."

            Yielding just smirked at her.

            "I'm not familiar with your 'previous captivity,'" he started. "Why don't we discuss that?"

            It wasn't a suggestion. He pulled a chair back from the metal table and waited for Ilene to sit across from him.

            _He wants information, _she realized. _I'll give it all to him._

            She practically slammed her body in the chair and reached for a croissant.

            "Where should I start?" she asked with the first bite. Her attitude was screaming profanities instead of questions, but Yielding just maintained his composure.

            "When were you supposedly kidnapped?"

            Ilene crossed her arms in front of her. "Last Christmas. By a man named Strachen." She wanted to shock him, and she had plenty of ideas on how. She wanted him to stop treating her like a child, and make him see how right she was. With just those two details, she could see the difference in his face. He knew she wasn't lying.

            Yielding actually looked surprised. Ilene rewarded herself with another bite of the croissant.

            "What?" she asked after swallowing. "Did you think I was kidding?" Yielding took a deep breath while tapping a finger against his chin.

            "Strachen. Older man, gray hair . . . portly build?" He spat out the details and waited for a confirmation. Ilene nodded. "Interesting. Strachen was apprehended by the Americans. And then one day he was found with three bullets in his head."

            Ilene almost jumped at that news. She didn't expect that retaliation of information. The croissant was set on the table, suddenly unappetizing.

            She had never known what became of the man. Ilene assumed Strachen was rotting in a cell. _Instead he's rotting in the ground_. It was painful to hear about. Not that she mourned the death, but because she knew it had to have been Julian who pulled the trigger.

            Her courage returned. _This is the only way for Yielding to understand Julian._

            "Good," she said, steeling her jawline. "Strachen was an awful man who thrived on making people suffer, just so he could gain power."

            "Sounds familiar," Yielding quipped with a glare. Ilene rolled her eyes.

            "Strachen kidnapped me, and used me as leverage to get Julian to steal something the Americans had," she said. "When Julian brought what Strachen wanted, he rescued me. And he almost killed Strachen then."

            "Almost," Yielding repeated. Ilene nodded.

            "Being kidnapped by such a ruthless man isn't pleasant. Julian was beaten in front of me. He also got shot," she said. "I learned that Strachen was responsible for torturing my brother months before too." Ilene could see the scars on Julian in her mind. It had shocked her as she had just begun to realize what life Julian had led. "But that torture didn't compare to what Strachen caused later."

            "Later?" Yielding tried just to parrot her, but Ilene could detect some genuine curiosity.

            "Strachen caught Julian. He was gone for . . . too long," Ilene said. She had been so worried. Julian had just left her with Sydney, and both were left to fret about him. "When he finally got free, he could barely move." Ilene was careful not to mention Sydney or the CIA's involvement. Julian had told her about the risks Sydney took to help them.

            "Ilene," Yielding started, "am I supposed to feel sorry for Sark?"

            Ilene narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes. He had cuts all over his chest, back and arms. The scars are still there. He was beaten, with deep bruises and fractures that he never really identified. We had a doctor on standby for days."

            "For days _after_ the CIA rescued Sark and arrested Strachen," Yielding filled in. Ilene didn't say anything. _How does he know?_ She knew Sydney was the one who orchestrated that rescue, and who convinced others to let Julian go.

            _But how did Yielding know?_

            "What makes you think the American government let him go?"

            He shot her a look that challenged her to insult his intelligence once more. "I have my sources."

            Ilene shrugged indifferently. "Don't expect me to confirm anything," she said. The agent smiled at that, and something in it made Ilene double-check the look.

            Yielding was starting to soften up. _No_, Ilene told herself, _he's just pleased with himself._ He was still too interested in her brother, too intent on catching him. _But why? Justice?_

            Or was it revenge?

            "What do you intend to do if you catch my brother?" The cloud that came over Yielding made Ilene lean away from the table.

            The agent measured his words carefully. "I won't kill him unless he makes me," he said, eliciting a glare from Ilene.

            She held her glare for several moments, but then laughed at the agent.

            "You have no idea how good Julian is," she said. "Not just as a person, but as an agent. You yourself have accused him of killing Strachen, while the man was held in an American prison."

            Yielding cocked his head to the side and grinned at her favoritism.

            "Sure, that must have taken some skill," Yielding said. "I'm counting on that for him to find you and your parents here. But he's also out of shape." His grin mocked her, and Ilene turned her head to look at something else. "I don't anticipate much of a challenge."

            Her breathing was speeding up as her anger rose. The arrogance of this man was infuriating, especially as he openly laughed and cheered for Julian's demise. _And I'm helpless to do anything about it_.

            She straightened up. _Not completely helpless._ Ilene suddenly leaned forward as she stood from her seat. She swung her arm, her hand open and firm as it neared Yielding's face. The slap echoed off the dark, bare walls.

            Yielding's eyes were wide with shock as he tried to process what just happened. He seemed stunned, and stayed that way for ten seconds.

            "You are the most unfeeling monster I've ever met," Ilene said between clenched teeth. She wanted to hit him again but she seemed to have the man's attention. "You claim Julian's a criminal, but you're the one who's kidnapped me and who's planning to murder." She pushed the metal table away from her, and it slammed into Yielding's lean stomach. "Take me back to my parents, you disgusting maggot."

            Her eyes never stopped willing death on the man. Yielding had sense enough to stay quiet, though Ilene could see he was fuming as well. He stood, pushing the table roughly as he went for the door.

            Ilene was led back to the other "detainment" area, but before Yielding let her go, he whirled her around to face him.

            "Our differences aside, Ilene, I'd be surprised if your brother makes it here alive," he said. His green eyes were bright with fury. "I'm not the only one gunning for Sark's demise."  
  
--------  
  
            Something about a woman's morning hair amused Sark. Sydney was asleep and contently oblivious to the tangled chestnut mess. Had she been awake she might have been mortified, but Sark found it . . . _dare I think 'cute'?_

            He pulled his t-shirt over his head, tugging the edges down over the top of his jeans and belt. He glanced at Calvin, whose own bedhead rivaled Sydney's. _But not nearly cute_, Sark thought.

            He smiled to himself and straightened his messy blonde hair. Five seconds later, he was ready for the day.

            But not. Sark had no idea where to start. MI6 had his family, but that didn't really tell him a location or how many were guarding them. _ Or if they're still alive._ He shook his head. The British might have conquered half the world by force, but nowadays they weren't so brutish.

            _Except for this Yielding character_. Sark was severely miffed at that development. He knew he couldn't blame the man for wanting revenge or whatever the agenda, so he blamed himself.

            And then he stopped himself. _You can only beat yourself up for so long_.

            He thought about making some calls—to sources, maybe even Irina—but he wasn't sure if he should make it clearly known that he was indeed alive and well. Irina knew that, but coming out of his retirement would certainly make some waves. He couldn't be selfish either, and just stay hidden while his family was in danger.

            _So where do I draw the line?_

            His revelry was interrupted by a cell phone.

            Sydney stirred at it, recognizing the ring as her own. Sark watched as she quickly sat up and answered. Calvin rolled around on his bed, reluctantly waking up.

            "Hello?" she said groggily. Suddenly her eyes shot open. "Mom?" Sark straightened up at that one word. _Irina__ calling out of the blue can't be a good thing_._ Unless she means to help . . ._

            He shook that thought away. He'd seen Irina "help" before, and it only led to torture that he'd rather forget.

            "Sark." He looked up and saw Sydney offering him the phone. He couldn't mask the confused look that surfaced, but he took the phone.

            "Yes," he answered coldly.

            "I know you wanted me completely out of your life," Irina began, "but I thought this couldn't wait." Sark held back a sigh.

            "What is it?" he asked, the same attitude in place.

            "The world's buzzing about you being alive. I wasn't the leak. For some reason everyone wants to know where you are," she said.

            "Why?"

            "I've gotten wind of several contracts out on your life," she said. The concern was gone from her voice; she might just as well have said that breakfast was ready.

            "How many did you commission?" Sark asked. The comment wasn't lost on Irina, but she ignored it.

            "None. But consider yourself warned," she said, as if absolving some favor. "People are after your head."

            He heard the line click to an end. Sark tossed the phone to a very curious Sydney.

            "What's wrong?" she asked immediately. He couldn't suppress a smirk.

            "It's curious how a call from your mother always means trouble," he commented. "The word is out that I'm alive. And it seems some people would prefer I were still dead."

            She got out of bed, her pajamas crumpled. "What?"

            "Yeah, what?" Calvin echoed. Sark sighed.

            "People are trying to kill me," he said calmly. "Now let's get going." He grabbed his own phone and made some calls to what sources he still had, while Sydney and Calvin frantically got dressed.


	4. Attempts

a/n: Yeah, so this Sydney-only POV thing is definitely not working, as you could probably tell. I can't even divide it up fairly between her and Sark's POV. So this is now just 3rd person limited omniscient—I'll follow different characters at different times (but I'll stick to one POV per scene). But don't worry—I'll play up Syd's POV as much as I creatively can. Thanks to sallene for previewing this!

Attempts

            "London it is," Sark said after lengthy discussion. Sydney nodded and picked up the pace to the airport.

            Sark had called a few of his sources, trying to put out feelers for where this Yielding fellow was. Sydney had spent the last hour trying to tell him that MI6 covered a decent amount of territory in Great Britain alone; odds were that the agent was there.

            And now she, Sark and Calvin were headed that way. But only after one of Sark's sources supported the theory.

            Sydney couldn't help but feel alone. Not that she was—obviously she was helping Sark—but she felt like no one had their backs. Her dad was trying to dig up what he could, but Sydney could tell he was under pressure because the rest of CIA knew Sark was alive.

            There was always her mother, but Sark didn't trust her, and that was that. So they relied on instinct and what sources Sark felt he could trust.

            Which pointed them to London, for starters.

            They boarded a plane, a direct British Airways flight to Heathrow. The flight was moderately full, but not overcrowded to be uncomfortable. Sark and Calvin sat behind Sydney, all three in first class.

            "There's simply no way I'm traveling coach for a flight this long," Sark had said, demanding luxury. Calvin, of course, had no complaints.

            The pressure made her ears pop. Sydney extended her jaw, up and down, easing the sharp pain. She could hear Calvin snickering with his brother.

            She turned around in her seat to face them. "Settle down, you two," she scolded. The two blondes looked up innocently at her.

            And Sark's eyes, as usual, made her heart speed up. That fierce ice blue that stared right through her, right to her heart. The obvious heat in them made her blush—he always looked at her with such intense passion.

            She gave him a catty smile, toying with him. "Don't think I don't know you're smirking behind my back."

            That made him grin outright.

            Sydney settled down in her seat and sipped at a soda. She wished she and Sark were sitting together, but she knew neither felt comfortable leaving Calvin alone, even only a seat behind from each other.

            The sun shot into her eyes, and she pulled the shade down. The sun would be a burden for awhile as they flew West and met the other half of the world.

            After a few hours, the soda got to her. Sydney stood up and moved for the restroom. Of course it was occupied; were they ever available?

            She looked back at Sark and Calvin. Cal's head rested on Sark's shoulder. She smiled at the sight.

            Her eyes swept over nondescript passengers. She wasn't looking for anything, but a man in a jean jacket caught her attention.

            _Men shouldn't wear jean jackets_. Of all terrible fashion items to wear, a man should never purposely choose _that_. Of course, not that Sydney had tons of time to browse through _InStyle_, but some things were just instinct.

            _Obviously not his instinct._

            A plump woman emerged from the bathroom, and Sydney went in. When she came out again, the man was flipping a little too hard through a duty-free catalog.

            _No wonder. He buys from those things_, she thought.

            The in-flight movie was less than thrilling. It was a boy-meets-girl romance with few comedic lines. The kisses were forced, as if the leading actors hated each other. Sydney sighed and decided to sleep.

            The flight was over nine hours long. Sydney checked her watch. _Six hours to go_.

            Nature called again when she awoke, and Sydney made her way to the bathrooms with clouded vision.

            She splashed water on her face and pressed a paper towel to her skin. It revived her a bit, enough for her to start thinking.

            Sark was remarkably calm about his family being kidnapped and with everyone after him. As she left the bathroom, she saw him asleep. His head leaned back on the headrest, his eyes shut and even peaceful. He still smirked, but Sydney was learning that that was an innate expression for him.

            It made her smile.

            And freeze. Her eyes caught Jean Jacket man. He had dark eyes and they were focused on Sark.

            Sydney watched him without leaving the restroom galley. He watched Sark. The man's mouth twitched and then he looked away.

            _A citizen, recognizing him?_

            She scrapped that theory immediately and made her way back to her seat.

            _The jean jacket_. It was slightly cool on the plane, but not enough to warrant a jacket. None of the passengers used any of the blankets. _A way to hide a weapon?_

            Sydney wasn't sure what to think. She didn't want to unnecessarily cause a scene or draw the man's attention. But she tried to figure out how to alert Sark, especially if she was right.

            It didn't matter. The man stood and went to the galley. And Sydney quickly turned to face Sark, who seemed wide awake now.

            "Does that man seem suspicious to you?" she whispered quickly. But Sark's eyes were on the galley, as if he'd followed the movement himself.

            "Was it the jean jacket for you?" he asked. She nodded. "An assassin, probably." He didn't show any panic, just intense scrutiny, and as usual that floored Sydney.

            "How can you be so calm?" she hissed at him.

            "He can't do anything publicly. He'd be trapped," he said. His eyes never left the curtain blocking the galley. "But I bet he's prepping. I don't suppose you have a gun on you."

            "I do, actually," she said. It was one of the benefits of having a CIA badge. But she didn't advertise that. Her gun was stowed in her bag right now.

            "Really?" Sark's surprise was genuine. "I was joking. We don't want the attention either." He gently pushed a sleeping Calvin to lean on the window, and then he leaned forward, grabbing something small from his boot.

            Sydney sighed and turned back in her seat. She spoke over her shoulder. "How are you going to stop him?" She didn't hear any answer.

            The man emerged, tugging at his jacket. _What an obvious tell_, Sydney thought. He went to his seat, and all was quiet.

            The stewardess made her rounds to the first class passengers. She started with Sark.

            "Champagne?"

            "Yes please," she heard Sark say. Sydney glanced over her shoulder between the crack in between the seats. Sark glanced at the champagne, then Sydney. Realization dawned on her.

            _Drugged? Poisoned?_ Before she could decide which, Sark stood up. He took a sip of the champagne as he made his way to the bathroom.

            _He drank it?!_

            A couple of minutes later, Sark emerged, empty glass in hand. He faked a yawn and stumbled back to his seat. Calvin was still asleep.

            Sark leaned back in his seat, and winked at Sydney when she shot him a look. Relief flooded her. _So there is a plan here_. She followed Sark's lead and settled in her seat. Both pretended to rest, but neither shut an eye.

            Hours passed, and the captain made an announcement. The plane was only minutes away from starting its descent. Sydney went to the restroom again, surveilling the assassin as she walked to and from the tin bathrooms.

            He looked nervous but confident. He avoided Sydney all together, and stared ahead.

            Calvin and Sark were chattering again, and Sydney couldn't help but feel frustrated. _They're joking at a time like this?!_

            She expected the assassin to make a move, soon.

---------------

            Sark, however, knew better. Having stalked his prey like this several times in his life, he knew the assassin wouldn't try a thing on the plane.

            _He'll wait till we land._

            So he sat back and enjoyed the flight. The second in-flight movie was lame, but Calvin laughed. His brother still had no clue about the situation.

            The champagne was good, though a little too bubbly for his tastes. Sark petitioned two more glasses from the obliging stewardess.

            The plane landed, without incident. Sark yawned and stretched as he and Calvin stood. He grabbed his bag, full of items he purchased from Vancouver. Sydney kept shooting him panicky looks, and he almost rolled his eyes.

            _Relax!_

            They exited, and Sark kept his eyes open for a men's room.

            When he found one and headed towards it, Calvin spoke up.

            "Great, I have to go too," he said. Sark stopped and smiled.

            "No you don't," he said. He shot Sydney a smile and a look. "Stay with Syd."

            The men's room was active, but that just made things more fun. Sark anticipated a thirty-second gap between his entrance and the assassin's. He used the time to find an appropriate place.

            The restroom's capacity was large; the sinks came from either side of a wall in the middle of the facility, while stalls and urinals surrounded the outer walls. Sark stepped out of sight behind the wall of sinks. He leaned against the ceramic tile and waited.

            He heard footsteps, in and out. The normal pattern was quick shuffles to the closest open stall, usually on the other side of the wall. One set deviated to move further away. Sark considered getting his knife from his boot, but something challenged him for a more direct method.

            The jean jacket came into view, and the assassin hesitated when he saw Sark. Sark glared at the man. It was more than hesitation. The assassin froze like a deer on the road. Sark stood up straight and faced the man, his eyes never relenting.

            "I know why you're here," he said coolly. "How are your odds?" It was cocky, to be sure, but enough boldness may just make this fashion victim realize his mistake.

            The man stepped back, weighing his options. Sark knew the outcome already, but waited patiently for the man's decision.

            He went for something in that awful jacket, and Sark dove ahead towards him. He closed the distance as the assassin fumbled for aim at Sark. The gun was out and ready, but the assassin was not. Sark slid across the tile floor and tried not to think about how unsanitary that move was as his weight slammed into the assassin's legs. The man fell on his rear, and Sark quickly stood up, picking up the man by the denim collar. He grabbed the gun and tossed it in the trash.

            A loud flush covered the sound of Sark's first hit. The man groaned as blood started from his nose. Sark quickly pushed the man into a handicap stall. He kicked the door shut behind him and slammed the man against the wall.

            "You're as stupid as you appear," Sark said. He smiled politely and then grabbed the man by the hair. He yanked the hair hard, down to the toilet. The man's head connected sharply with the porcelain. Sark smiled at the sight, and quickly left the restroom.

            Calvin looked ticked when he came out.

            "Why couldn't I go? I _have_ to go," he said, pouting like a newly potty-trained toddler. Sark shot him a look.

            "We need to leave quickly. You can go somewhere else." Sark led the way, walking quickly as he pulled out a disguising baseball cap from his bag.

            The assassins were emerging. _Irina wasn't lying_. This time, anyway.

            "What happened?" Sydney asked once they found a car and were safely driving off.

            "We were right," he said. "He's unconscious in the men's room." He saw a flicker of surprise.

            "You left him alive?" It was a question, but it made it seem like she disagreed with the decision.

            "Yes," Sark answered. "He was out of his league." He heard Sydney gasp.

            "Out of his league?! He tried to poison you!" she exclaimed. Sark's brow furrowed.

            "Poison?" he repeated. "What makes you think that?" Suddenly he realized what must have gone through her head while they were on the plane. "The champagne wasn't poisoned. I was just thirsty."

            Sydney screamed in annoyance and frustration, drawing a bewildered look from Calvin and a laugh from Sark.

-----------------

            Ilene paced around the cell, annoying her parents in the process. They continued to bemoan their situation, and hope Julian was all right. Ilene, though, couldn't help but stew over her confrontation with Agent Yielding.

            He _knew_ Julian was in danger, and not just from his government. And yet he kept that from Ilene, and just demanded information and sympathy for his own pain, all the while rejoicing in the fact that assassins were trying to kill Julian!

            Even now she just wanted to scream out. She crossed her arms over her chest and stayed quiet instead. She couldn't act too distressed; her mother was distressed enough for all three of them.

            Ilene ran her fingers through her wavy red hair. She sighed at her situation. She wish she could warn Julian.

            The cell door squeaked, and Agent Yielding came in with his usual commanding presence. _Maybe it's his height_, Ilene thought. The man had to be over 2 meters tall, and with his lanky build, it just made him seem even taller.

            "I have some news," he began, glancing from the parents to Ilene. "Sark just evaded a hitman at Heathrow."

            Henry and Barbara gasped while Ilene cheered. She jumped up and down once and clapped her hands. Agent Yielding cocked his head to the side, perplexed by her behavior.

            She stopped her cheering and looked pointedly at her parents. "That means he's fine."

            "For now," Yielding said. Ilene glared at him. "There will be more. But of course I want him to make it here alive." He winked when he said that, and it took every ounce of control in Ilene not to slug him. She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips together. It must have had some effect—Yielding sobered up.

            "May I speak with you outside?"

            And he meant outside. Ilene followed him to a parking lot, all the while wondering why on earth he was leading her there. _Weird_. The building they came from was only two stories, but they had gone up in the elevator. _Again, weird._

            The sun was high above them, and it heated Ilene's hair. She glanced over Yielding. The dark suit couldn't be comfortable._ But it does make him_—

            She stopped herself there and waited for the hateful agent to explain this excursion.

            "Ilene, I wanted to apologize," he said. "I was extremely cold to you yesterday." Ilene blinked.

            "You're apologizing?"

            Yielding nodded. "He's still your brother, and I admire your loyalty to him." She rolled her eyes.

            "It's not just loyalty," she said, sighing dramatically. "That's what you don't see. Julian isn't _bad_!"

            The agent swallowed and folded his arms over his chest. He shifted his weight. "Look, I know we don't agree on that. But with several people wanting him dead, I think Sark would be safer in British custody."

            Astonishment. It was clearly printed over Ilene's face. "And you figure that . . . how?" And suddenly she knew what he wanted from her. She started to laugh, while the agent looked around him as if looking for the joke.

            "Did I miss something?"

            She shook her head. "I've been trying to figure out why you've been paying all this individual attention to me—why you've been even caring what I think. And now, with this claim of safety with the government . . . I figured it out."

            "What?" Yielding asked.

            "You want me to think you're a good guy, that you really want Sark alive, _for his own good_," she emphasized. "You're using me, to get what you want. To get me on your side so I will help you bring him in."

            He didn't answer, but opened and closed his mouth as he tried to come up with something. Ilene shook her head and again.

            And then, taking a look around, the light bulb came on in Ilene's head.

            "I'm not using you," he started to say.

            "Yeah, right," she said. Suddenly Ilene kicked him, a forceful kick in the groin. Yielding grunted as he went to his knees.

            Ilene turned from the agent and ran in the noon sunlight. The brightness was almost disorienting, but she kept running. She had no idea where she was. If this was London, it wasn't any part of town she knew, though it was definitely a metropolitan area.

            _That doesn't matter now. Just get away and warn Julian!_

            She ran hard, her slender legs pushing her forward. Her hair streamed behind her, floating in the air as she kept running.

            After a block in the strange city, Ilene glanced over her shoulder. Yielding wasn't behind her, but she heard tires squeal.

            She turned forward again and ran. _Hide!_ She ran past building after building, but nothing looked populated enough to blend in.

            And then she saw it—every girl's dream, and in this case, her salvation: a shopping center.

            Ilene darted inside. She glanced back to see if Yielding or anyone else saw her go in. _Nothing._ She slowed her pace, but still hurried through the shopping center.

            Women, shopping bags, small children, teens . . . They laughed and rejoiced in their purchases, completely oblivious to the intensity that flew by them.

            Ilene stopped suddenly as she saw the perfect hiding place. She ducked into the store.

            Cacique was an upscale lingerie boutique, and a handful of women browsed eagerly for a spicy outfit. Ilene joined their ranks.

            "Are you looking for anything in particular?" one woman asked Ilene. She wore heavy makeup, and tried to hide her disdain for Ilene's less than fresh appearance. _See how you do after being kidnapped._

            "Yes, I see what I want. Can you open a dressing room for me?" Ilene quickly grabbed three items and followed the clerk.

            She didn't bother to try anything on, but just sat on the fitting room's bench. She checked her watch. Only a minute had gone by, but she knew she'd need more time to hide.

            "Have you seen a young woman, red hair, blue eyes, and slightly out of breath?" The voice was familiar in its persistence. Ilene swore under her breath. _Yielding_.

            The clerk started to answer, and Ilene cautiously emerged from her fitting room. The other rooms were occupied but there was a stock room in the same area. Ilene tried her luck.

            The door knob turned, but the door seemed stuck. Ilene bit her lip and slammed her shoulder into the door. It gave.

            "There she is!" The clerk sounded shocked, but Ilene didn't care. She quickly moved through the stock room. Racks of lingerie lined the walls, and boxes littered the floor. Ilene stumbled over some, but kept going when she heard Yielding yell after her.

            "Ilene, stop!" She heard him stumble as well and smiled. _At least it's not easy for either of us._

            The room wasn't huge, but Ilene could see a door towards the back. _To the receiving docks_, she thought. Ilene suddenly felt her foot catch on something. She tripped and started to fall.

            The ground and underwear came close to her vision. Ilene caught herself on a box, pushing herself back up. Just then, Yielding tackled her.

            The two crashed on top of the boxes, and fell with Ilene's back on the hard ground. Yielding's chest was heaving from the chase, and Ilene fought to control her own breathing. The weight of his body pinned her down, but she struggled to hit him and push him off.

            Yielding grabbed her wrists and pinned them down above her head. She started to knee him but he shifted his weight to prevent her legs from moving.

            "If it makes you feel better, that really hurt," he said with a gleam in his eyes. Ilene renewed her struggles, but unsuccessfully.

            She sighed and stopped for a moment. "How did you find me in there?" Of all the shops, and they chose the same one?  
            Yielding smiled. "Lingerie store—you thought I wouldn't have the guts to come in, let alone search for you there." She flashed him a mocking grin, then tried kneeing him again.

            She stopped when he spread his body over hers more, even ducking his head closely over hers, all to quiet her. She just glared at him. He hadn't moved yet, but stared back at her. It seemed like a battle of wills, or some last defiance to escape. But that wasn't quite it either.

            "Is everything all right?" It was the clerk, no doubt wondering why two people lay surrounded by lingerie she intended to sell. Yielding cleared his throat.

            "Yes," he said. "Just a thief ma'am." Ilene glared at him again for the lie. He flashed her a smirk and stood up, pulling her up with him.

            Yielding handcuffed one of Ilene's wrists, and then his own. "No running," he said sternly.

            They both walked out of the shopping center—Ilene scowled while Yielding smirked. When they reached his car, in an emergency lane outside the center, Yielding pushed her towards the driver's seat.

            "You want me to drive?" she asked. Yielding laughed.

            "No. I'm not uncuffing you, and I'm not climbing over the seats." He pushed her again. Ilene huffed again as she scrambled over the seats.

            The drive was quick and silent. Ilene stared out the window, ignoring Yielding completely.

            "I'm not trying to use you, Ilene." He didn't look at her, but acted like he was talking to the radio. "I'm doing what's right."

            She muttered something under her breath, making him look over at her. He sighed and stopped the car outside the government building.

            He got out of the car, practically dragging her out—or at least, so it seemed to her. Ilene straightened her shirt.

            Yielding led her back into the building, down the elevator, and towards her cell. He stopped again, and made her face him.

            "No more escape attempts," he said. He tilted his head down at her, ever the authority figure. Ilene smiled sweetly.

            "Fine," she said. Then she kicked the back of his leg, almost in a sweep. Yielding landed on his back with a surprised yelp. The handcuffs connecting them pulled at her, but she stayed victoriously on her feet. "Any other requests?"


	5. Good Will

Many thanks to sallene for previewing this, as always!

**Good Will**

London.

There was something about that city that always made Sydney's heart swell. Sure, Paris was supposed to be the city of love, but in reality, she'd take London any day.

Jet lag was setting in, but she wasn't about to take a nap right now. There was too much to do. Whether or not she could do it, though, remained to be seen.

When you're searching for someone, you really have little to go on. You wait and wait for some information, some break that you can follow. And then you run like hell to follow it.

Sydney wished they were at that point. Instead, Sark was scraping the barrel for sources he could trust. She knew he'd already added his last source to his mental hit list; that assassin had to have tracked them down through the source.

She sighed, drawing a look from Sark as he tried his command over the phone.

"Well, where would MI6 hold their prisoners?" he asked. He pursed his lips together into a frustrated smirk.

They stood at a fuel station. Calvin pumped the fuel into the car, and he looked sufficiently bored. His blonde hair was a mess, and he fiddle with it. He left the pump on automatic, and dipped his hands into the water used to clean the windshields. Sydney cringed as he spiked his hair with the dirty water. He smiled to himself victoriously as he glanced in the side-view mirror.

Sydney shook her head, and focused on Sark. His face was grim but his eyes bright with determination. He hung up the phone and looked to Sydney.

"Anything?" she asked.

He shook his head. "But he's looking," he said, referring to the source he spoke with. "We're to meet him at a club tonight, in just a few hours."

"How do you know you can trust him?" The question, surprisingly, came from Calvin. Sydney glanced over at him, then back at Sark. She raised her eyebrows at him, pressing for an answer.

Sark's face was unreadable and emotionless. "I don't."  
  
--------

Yet another visit interrupted Ilene—she was taking an evening nap, as were her parents. Ilene sat up quickly, the sleepiness evaporating as she eyed the intruder. It was the short blonde agent, Yielding's partner. 

"Wake up," he said loudly. It was to her parents, and it worked. Both of their bodies twitched at the noise, until they too sat up.

"You're being released," he said. Ilene's mother let out an exultant gasp. "Just you, ma'am."

The joy subsided, and Barbara looked to her husband with worry in her eyes.

"But—"

"Now, ma'am, before Agent Yielding changes his mind." The short agent quickly motioned her to her feet, and started pulling her towards the door.

"What?!" Ilene exclaimed. "I want to speak with Agent Yielding!" The demand was bold, but it didn't stop her mother from being led out of the cell. The door shut loudly, and Ilene turned to face her father.

"Why would they only release your mother?" he asked. His face was angry, but then again, so was Ilene.

"I'll find out," Ilene said confidently. She waited; it wouldn't be long until Yielding showed up.

He made an appearance fifteen minutes later.

"Yes, Ilene," he said with a sigh.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said, not hesitating a moment to grill him. "Where is my mother?"

Her father stood up, trying to challenge the agent just by his sheer body build. It wasn't scaring Yielding, but it convinced him to take the conversation elsewhere.

He led Ilene to another room, and she followed passively. _He definitely won't take me outdoors again_. She suppressed a laugh at that memory, and sat at the familiar metal table.

Yielding stayed standing. He didn't wear a suit jacket, but his shirt sleeves were rolled up and his tie loose.

"Your mother has been released," he said. "I know you're not inclined to believe me, but she has been released. We let her go, out on her own."

Ilene studied his eyes, looking for truth over lies. "Why let her go now? And especially when she'll have no idea where she is!"

Yielding held up a hand. "Ilene, calm down," he said with a touch of condescension. "We told her where we are. She's free."

The suspicion never left Ilene's eyes. _Why? Why let her go, especially when she'll contact Julian—_

And the glare's force renewed. Ilene narrowed her eyes at the agent. "You let her go so you could follow her to Julian."

It was Yielding's turn to roll his eyes. "Believe it or not, I don't give your mother that much credit to even be able to find him. And, I give Sark more credit than thinking he'll fall for such a blatant tactic."

"Then . . ." she thought about it . . "you're counting on her to lead Julian to you."

Yielding smiled, almost like he was proud of her. "I gave your mother a tidbit of information, to point Sark in the right direction. Which means we have to leave."

He went for the door, then turned back to her. "Ilene, I'm really not the bad guy."

She didn't answer.

--------

Calvin buttoned up his shirt. He was so freaking excited! _My first op!!_

Well, not his, but he was going along. The shirt was a strategically-torn black Rammstein t-shirt. He worked on his hair next, his eyes glued to the mirror as he watched the spikes rise.

And suddenly he saw Sydney in the reflection too. Calvin immediately straightened up and tried to appear disinterested. But he saw her smirk just the same.

"Nice try, Cal," she said, patting him on the back. He tried his best to seem embarrassed by that until she moved on. And as soon as she did, Cal grinned at his reflection.

He left his domain by the mirror when he felt ready. He knew he was strutting through the hotel room, but he honestly didn't care.

Julian was fixing his own hair, and Calvin couldn't help but let his jaw drop. Getting his brother to wear jeans on a daily basis had been a struggle, but here he was, willingly dressed in a black shirt with a metallic shine and dark pants that had more zippers than needed. To top it off, he wore a chain around his neck and fake studs in his ears and chin.

He was actually applying eyeliner too, and that's when Calvin started laughing. Julian glared at him.

"You're next," he warned, waving the black eyeliner at him. Calvin shrugged.

He wandered around the room, enjoying the anticipation. And Sydney—_can she be any hotter?_ Calvin noticed that Julian kept eyeing her when she thought he wasn't looking. _How can anyone not look? _The leather bustier and magenta streaks in her hair . . . something about that combination and knowing how cool she was in real life just made her hotter than usual.

Julian's phone rang. Calvin moved to get it.

"Toss it here," Julian said. He caught it and answered while Calvin took Julian's place in front of the mirror.

"Mom?!" he heard his brother say.

"What?" Calvin and Sydney asked simultaneously.

"Mom, where are you?"

Calvin was practically jumping. _Mom's calling? She must be free!! And Dad and Ilene—_

"Okay, okay. Calm down, Mom," Julian said. "Listen, I want you to get to the airport. Wait in a heavily populated area, and wait to be paged under the name Lynn Pharoahs."

_Lynn Pharoahs?! Where did he come up with that name?_

"Someone will come for you," Julian continued. "Mom, it's not safe for any of us to come get you directly. Trust me."

_Does he know something I don't?_ Calvin shot a look to Sydney, who nodded reassuringly. _Typical—she already knows what he's talking about._

_ Spies_, he thought with a sigh.

Julian hung up.

"Wait! Don't I get to talk to her?" Calvin protested. _Geez__, she's my mother too._ But Julian shook his head.

"We shouldn't stay," he said. "We don't know if Mom was set up to make the call, to try and track us down. Sydney, do you think your father could look after her?"

Calvin looked to Sydney, who nodded with a touch of hesitancy. Julian must have picked up on it.

"Just to keep her safe. No one will get by him," Julian said.

Sydney nodded again. "I'll call him."

"Wait," Calvin said, reminding everyone that he was indeed present and not up to speed. "What's going on?"

"We're going to the club, now."

---------

Calvin asked questions along the way, and it was annoying Sark.

"Cal, let me sum this up as quickly and succinctly as possible," he began. "MI6 let Mom go, and only Mom. They're either counting on me to come find her, and then they'll pick me up, or they're counting on Mom to give us a tidbit to find Ilene and Dad."

Calvin stopped walking along with them, which again made Sark frustrated. "Really?"

Sark rolled his eyes. "It's so much easier if you just understand this naturally," he muttered. Sydney shot him a glare and mouthed 'be nice' to him.

"Come on," Sydney said, putting her arm over Calvin's shoulders. "The club's just ahead."

Sark's mindset changed as soon as they set foot in the club. He let himself go on the defensive, looking in every corner for anyone too interested. The thick chain around his neck rattled as he cut through the crowded entryway.

"Sydney," he said with a nod. She nodded back and spread out. Sark loved that they still connected that way. She had his back, and that was comforting, especially when their only other asset was Calvin.

_Asset?_ That was being generous, but Sark let it go. His brother followed him, looking amazed at how some people were this weird. Sark glanced at him. Calvin looked like he fit in, except for the astonished looks and nervous fiddling with his hands.

Sark sighed, and stopped. Calvin almost ran into him.

"Cal," Sark said, or yelled over the loud bass and techno. "You have to relax. I have to meet this source alone." He paused, waiting for some nod of acknowledgement. "Can you blend in?"

Calvin nodded like an enthusiastic intern. "What should I do?"

Sark fought back a smirk. "Go pick up a girl, and try to watch for Sydney."

Calvin nodded again, with a serious but proud look on his face. _It's blending in, not saving the world_, Sark thought. But his brother split up and headed to the bar. Sark followed him with his eyes, watching until Calvin sat and smiled at a girl with peroxide-white hair and an eager response to his brother.

Sark turned and moved through the club. People bounced around him, shook their heads and hips around almost violently. He felt a few hands on him, passing touches and invitations. Sark never flinched but kept his eyes on his objective.

His source. The man sat at a corner table by an exit. _Convenient, if I were completely alone._ But he wasn't and he was glad; things were too unpredictable to go alone, especially since Sark felt slightly out of it.

It didn't help that being around Sydney constantly was screwing with his head. He'd had at least a dozen conversations with her, all in his head and playing out whether or not they could realistically be together.

The source stood, standing a good four inches over Sark. Sark had never considered himself short, but damn!

"Leonard," Sark greeted coldly, without any expression other than contempt. "What have you found?"

The tall man raised an eyebrow.

"No hug? Not even after coming back from the dead?" Leonard said. Sark narrowed his eyes at him. He didn't like where this was going already.

"Stop wasting time, Leonard." Sark sat down, facing the crowd. Leonard didn't look pleased but he obliged.

"This Alan Yielding doesn't like you much," the man started. "He's been put in charge of arresting you."

"Tell me something I don't already know," Sark said coolly. Leonard held up a hand.

"He is in Scotland, at MI6's Glasgow station." Leonard raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Good, yes?"

Sark fought to not shake the man to death. He'd already heard this from his mother, and he knew that Yielding wouldn't stay in Glasgow.

Sark glanced at Calvin, who was absorbed in his lady of choice. And she seemed absorbed in Sark.

She looked away and smiled instantly at Calvin.

Sark whipped his head around to find Sydney. He couldn't see her. There was plenty of colored hair in the room, and none of it matched her magenta.

And there it was—a slight wind, quick but hard, going through Sark's bones. _Leonard. _Sark looked back at the source. Leonard had a hopeful look on his face. It wasn't just to appease Sark. It was hope that he wouldn't be made.

"Leonard," Sark started as he slowly moved his hands to rest on the table, "who else is here?"

With a flash of movement, Sark grabbed his gun and shoved it against Leonard's knee.

"Mr. Sark, I would never—" Sark grabbed a knife from his boot, and thrust it in Leonard's calf. The man screamed but it was lost in the music.

"Who is it?"

But it was too late. Sark saw Calvin's girl suddenly reach for something in her own jacket and poke it in Calvin's stomach. Calvin's spine straightened instantly, and from where he was Sark could see his brother's wide, blue eyes.

"Consider yourself dead," he muttered to Leonard. Sark yanked the blade from the man's leg, and then stood slowly. The woman acknowledged him and nodded at a staircase to the basement floor of the club. Sark headed there, tucking away his gun and knife as he walked. His eyes still searched for Sydney. _Was she taken?_

He couldn't deal with that, not on top of everything else. Sark glanced over his shoulder, and saw the woman and Calvin following him.

Her eyes were like stone—dark and unmoving. Calvin kept looking frantically at his brother, uncertain about what to do. Sark didn't know either, but he would think of something.

_Think!_

As he reached the stairs, Sark heard Calvin and the woman behind him.

"Go down, slowly," she warned, prodding something into his back. Sark obliged. The noise from the club died down with every step.

"May I ask who sent you?" Sark asked politely. His voice came out confident and smooth, as if he were asking her for a date. But by the increased pressure in his back, he gathered she didn't buy into it.

_Better think of something quickly—she's not going to chitchat._

They went through a door that blocked off the basement. As soon as they all cleared it, the woman quickly shut the door.

_Privacy for the hit_—a rule in close-distance assassinations, to be sure, but it didn't bode well for Sark.

Nor Calvin, and that thought motivated Sark. He wasn't really surprised at this assassin, and that scared him. _I'm becoming too accustomed to this danger._

And he knew that wasn't fair to those he loved.

The woman suddenly shoved Sark forward, making him stumble but not fall. He turned to face her, with his hands up in plain sight.

"Lose the gun, and the knife," she ordered. She held her own blade against Calvin's throat. In her other hand was a gun, which she kept aimed at Sark. Sark moved his hands steadily as he removed his gun and knife, letting both fall to the floor.

That peroxide white hair distracted him, and he gathered that was its point. The woman's eyes glared at him. But it wasn't personal. _She's trying to intimidate me._

Her eyes looked Sark over and then she smiled.

"Something amusing you?" Sark asked. She shook her head.

"Most of my targets are old, fat and egotistical," she said. Her accent was French.

"Well, at the least I'm egotistical," Sark said, drawing a fuller smile from her. "Who sent you?"

The smile ended. "You're smarter than they give you credit for," she said. "Most people I kill ask who I am."

Sark shook his head. "That means nothing to me, since I know you've been hired."

"Someone who understands the business," she commented, the smile returning.

Sark shrugged. "It's business, not personal."

Suddenly the door burst open, and Sydney came through. She didn't hesitate to fire a shot at the woman. The assassin ducked, taking Calvin with her to the floor. She changed her aim and fired at Sydney.

Sark dove after his gun, avoiding crossfire in the process. He heard more gunshots as his weapon slid in his hand. Sark rolled on his back and faced the noise.

Sydney was in a stalemate, aiming the gun but not tightening the trigger. Her eyes showed fear as the peroxide-friendly woman started to draw a line on Calvin's neck with her knife.

"Don't," Sark said. His voice was even but so low the woman did a double-take to make sure he'd spoken. She smiled, her eyes victorious. Calvin whimpered as the cut grew across his neck. Sark hated that everyone always went for the neck. _Although it's the most life-threatening area that can instantly cripple._ Evidently, that was common knowledge.

"I'll let him go, if you give yourself up," she said. Sydney flinched; she pursed her lips together stubbornly, as if ready to shoot the woman in the head. Sark shot her a look. _Trust me_, he wanted to say.

He considered it. _If she succeeds and kills me, Yielding will probably let my family go anyway._ Was it odd that he considered death a viable option? Nothing was certain in his life, no safety guaranteed, no relationship set in stone. Sark blinked, clearing his vision and mind.

Sark gave up his gun again, this time tossing it to the corner of the basement. In doing so, he noticed an exit, probably to the back alley.

"Come here," the woman ordered. Her hold on Calvin was nervous; she knew she was outnumbered and that if she didn't play this carefully, Sydney would have her head. Nervous people can overreact, a danger for everyone. Sark obeyed.

He had no intention of letting Calvin get hurt anymore; he wasn't about to make a move, not with him here.

So he got closer to the woman. She kept the blade at Cal's neck, and aimed the gun at Sark. Sark moved until his chest pressed against the tip of the gun. Suddenly the assassin let go of Calvin and in a single movement, transferred the blade to Sark. She draped her arm around his neck, the knife against his skin, and then poked the gun in his side. Sark let her.

"Now leave," she ordered. Sydney's eyes were frantic, pleading for Sark not to make this so easy for the assassin. His eyes were unresponsive, and he knew it. Sydney collected Calvin, and started backing for the stairs, while the woman continued to drag Sark to the alley.

"Julian!" he heard Calvin call out.

The assassin kicked the door shut behind her, and they were alone in the alley. The club's music was still pounding. Sark doubted if anyone heard the gunshots.

"Keep moving," she whispered in his ear. She hustled him, but not enough where Sark could take advantage of the movement. The blade was starting to sting his skin, and the gun felt like it was already embedded in his side.

"May I know our destination?" he asked, ever the gentleman. The assassin didn't answer.

_She's getting us as far away as she can before safely killing me._ _Smart._ Sark knew Sydney was already running around the building to cut them off. But the peroxide queen was hurrying for an adjacent building.

It was a warehouse, ever the companion to shady clubs in metropolitan areas around the world. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed herself and Sark through it.

"So, what's your name?" Sark tried again. Peroxide Queen wouldn't do forever. She huffed at that and shoved him to the floor.

"Laina," she answered. Sark banged his knees as he hit the floor. "On your belly," she ordered. _Here it comes, finally_, Sark thought. He complied.

"For the record, I just bought these pants," he complained lightly.

"Interlock your fingers behind your head." Her tone was all business now. _She feels safe, just her and her target._

Sark smirked as he followed the order. The floor was incredibly dusty, and unsanitary as his eyes zoomed in on a questionable substance.

He heard Laina's feet shuffle, just a bit closer to him. The gun clicked as she handled it.

"How long have you been in the business?" Sark asked. His voice was seductively cheerful, hiding the real coldness that ran through his veins.

Laina chuckled. "Long enough to know that you're stalling." He heard another sound, and felt her foot bump his leg. She was getting into a stance.

Sark acted on the final seconds. He rolled over on his side, kicking his feet out at her ankles just as she fired where his head had been. She stumbled but didn't go down. She started to re-aim. Sark arched his body towards the ceiling; his arms braced his weight up, and with a quick breath, he kicked off his feet and connected with Laina's arms. He continued his momentum until his legs were suspended in the air, and then as they started to fall again, he pushed off his arms. His body lifted and he landed on his feet. It was a cheesy move, but it served its purpose when needed.

Laina glanced at the gun, which Sark noticed was well out of either person's reach. But she reached by her leg and pulled out the knife. Before Sark could react, she hurled it at him.

Sark spun to the side, but not far enough. The 4-inch blade slammed into his side, just barely catching his waist. But it was enough to stay lodged, with only the hilt sticking out.

Laina stayed on the floor, her chest heaving. She had a gleam in her eyes, a gleam Sark recognized. It was the pleasure from the kill, the rush just as the tides turn and the target is taken.

It was premature.

Sark yanked the knife from his side. Laina stumbled to her feet, surprised at her prey's resilience. She started for the gun, but Sark was tired of the scenario.

He lunged at her and pinned her on her stomach. He used only one arm while he held the knife at his side.

She struggled beneath him. Sark eased off her enough to roll her on her back. He pressed his forearm into her throat, which made her panic.

"I know you have to kill me," she said hoarsely. "But make it quick."

Sark smirked at that. "I don't have to kill you."

Then he plunged the knife in the woman's chest. Her chest seemed to hiss as air and life left her body.

Sark saw her mouth move.

"I . . . I thought it wasn't personal," she said, no doubt her last words. Sark's eyes froze over.

"It is when you go after my family." With that, he twisted the blade, instantly ending what remained.

He stared at her, the peroxide hair not seeming so bright in this faded warehouse. He stood and brushed himself off as he glared at what he'd done. _You could have let her live._

_ No you couldn't. They don't stop unless you kill them._

For the first time in . . . he couldn't place when—but he hated killing.

Yet he acknowledged that he was good at it.

He left the warehouse, shaking off the blood that splattered his hands. He went back to the basement of the club and gathered his gun and knife. Methodically, he put both away. Then he removed his cell phone, and called Sydney.

"Sark!" she yelled into the phone.

"I'm all right, Sydney." His voice was robotic, though he tried to snap out of it. "Meet me in front of the club."

Calvin hugged the air out of him when they met up. Sark smiled but winced at the pressure on his side.

Sydney was next, but instead of a hug, she opened up his jacket to see the wound.

"We need to get you cleaned up," she said. Her tone was stiff. _She's miffed._ "Don't you ever do that again," she hissed in his ear.

Sark nodded and gave his most apologetic look. Then he turned to Calvin.

"Hundreds of women in the room, and you choose the assassin?"

A sheepish Calvin just shrugged.


	6. Reconciliation

Reconciliation

In their new hotel room, Calvin was long since asleep. He was jubilant all the way back, despite the cut on his neck. In Sydney's opinion, he wasn't freaked out enough.

Sark had to hit him upside the head for a reality check.

Sark came out of the shower dressed only from the waist down. Sydney noticed immediately.

His jeans barely hung on his hipbone. The boxers he wore peaked above the waistline. Sydney moved her eyes up from there, until they took a detour to the gash in his side.

_Right.__ Focusing now . . ._

"Come here," she said, patting the bed she sat on. She had bandages and ointment ready, and a needle and stitching as well, if necessary.

Sark sat by her. He kept his eyes on the floor. He flinched when she touched his skin. Sydney tried not to take that personally. She examined the wound. It was deep, but thankfully so off-center that nothing was at stake. There were several layers of skin exposed, little peaks of white, raw pink and red dermal sections. The wound still bled, but the worst was over.

"Lie down, and hold still," she said to him. She grabbed some antiseptic solution as he fell back on the bed. His jaw tightened as she poured the solution over the wound.

She opened a gauze packet, and squeezed a large amount of ointment over the cloth. She let it sit on top of the wound while she got the medical tape ready.

His eyes followed her, but whenever she looked directly at him, he glanced away. Sydney pursed her lips and roughly taped the gauze down.

Sark grunted and jerked his body away. "Sydney, I can appreciate your anger, but please don't make it so physical."

Sydney rolled her eyes.

"I thought you could handle pain better," she said, half-teasing him. He didn't say anything, and silence settled like heavy dust.

"I called my father," Sydney said, hoping to ease the awkwardness. "He arranged for your mother to fly back to Canada. He's meeting her there, and will look after her."

Sark nodded. "Thank you."

And the silence—it might as well have been an iron curtain.

"So what now?" Sydney asked. "Scotland?"

Sark nodded. "It's all we have, but I'm not too worried. Yielding will make sure I find him."

Sydney squinted as she thought about that. Her hands worked quickly to clean up the gauze and supplies. "Do you think he'll let your dad or Ilene go?"

"My dad. He'll let him go next," he said confidently. "It'll be the last bit of information to lead us to Yielding, and Ilene."

Sydney didn't doubt it. But she had no idea what Sark would do then—just as she had no idea what he planned tonight. She honestly believed he had been giving up.

_Could he just give up like that?_ More importantly, would he in the future?

"What are you going to do, when we're close enough?"

Sark sat up. It must have been too quickly, because he weaved a bit. Sydney steadied him with a warm hand. She could feel the tension in his body. He was in such pain, and not just physical. She'd seen it before, too many times.

Sydney scooted back until she rested against the headboard. Sark watched her with curiosity, until she pulled at his shoulders. He sighed softly, but she heard it. Sydney ignored it and brought him closer to her.

He rested, leaning against her as she held him. It was comforting—the warmth, the silence. Awkwardness still lingered between them, but Sydney ignored it as well. She just held him.

"Sydney," he said suddenly, almost making her jump.

"Yeah?" She ducked her head forward, and her hair fell onto his shoulder. She felt him shudder from the contact, and she smiled.

He didn't say anything for a moment. _He's debating about something_.

"I think I have to let them go this time," he said. Sydney leaned forward and used one hand to turn Sark's face toward her.

"What?"

"My family," he said softly, eyeing Calvin. "I have to let them go this time. No more being near them. It's not enough to protect them."

"Sark," she said, her forehead wrinkled in confusion, "what are you thinking?"

He pulled his head away from her grasp and eyed his feet with sudden interest.

"Faking my death, constantly keeping an eye on them . . . it's not working," he said. "As long as I'm around, they know too much, and they become targets."

"You can't just leave them." _He can't, not after all he's done to be with them again._ It wasn't fair to his family, much less him.

Sark smirked. "No, they wouldn't stand for that, would they?" Sydney began to breathe again. "No," Sark continued. "I'd have to make them believe I was dead again."

She froze. And then she shoved him away from her. Sark almost face-planted on the bed.

"They deserve better than that, Sark," she said. Calvin stirred but settled without waking. Sydney stood up and started pacing through the hotel room. "_You_ deserve better!"

"Not to sound snobby, but I agree. However, that doesn't change the failures in the last year," he said. He sat up straight, watching her intently. She didn't like it; he was convinced—she knew that look—and now he was trying to convince her. "Ilene was kidnapped last Christmas. Irina hid the rest of my family from me. Now I have intelligence agencies holding my family hostage. I've faked my death so many times now that no one's buying it."

Sydney jumped on the point. "Exactly, so why would they believe it if you faked your death again?"

Sark sighed. "It'd have to be convincing, at least to my family."

She froze again. _Just his family?_ "What about the rest of the world?"

Those smooth shoulders just shrugged. "It doesn't matter what they think. They'll still seek me out."

"Then what would you do?" Sydney stepped closer to him, hesitantly as if she expected something that could hurt.

"Run. Survive. But away from the ones I love."

Her heart stopped, and Sark looked away. "You're not just talking about them."

Sark didn't move a muscle, but he might as well have nodded.

"Sark—"

He stood up abruptly and pushed past her. "Don't fool yourself, Sydney. We're not even sure this will work. It obviously isn't a priority to either of us, so why waste the time and put ourselves in danger?"

Sydney felt like she was drowning. A lump rose in her throat and she could feel the tears fighting to the foreground. She quickly swiped at them.

"Are you . . ." Another swipe at the tears. "How could you just . . . give up on us?"

Sark sighed. It wasn't just from fatigue, or avoidance. It was sadness, and it rang through Sydney's body.

"It's not giving up. It's giving them, and you, a chance at something that would work. A life as real as you want to make it, without the risks that I bring to the table."

It was Sydney's turn to sit. She stared at Calvin, her heart aching at what he would have to go through if Sark carried out this latest plan. She thought about Ilene, the gorgeous smile she always wore, the light she seemed to exude. Would that disappear with Sark gone? There was such a connection between the two of them . . . What price would they all pay?

"Sark," she said too quietly, "you've sacrificed so much already. . . ." Her voice caught in her throat.

She saw him look at Calvin, then to her. He nodded slowly. "At least I'm willing to make a sacrifice."

He turned and grabbed a shirt and his room key, and he left the room. Sydney's chest heaved with every pump of her heart, and every thought she had made her want to cry.

She was too stunned to go after him, especially when she thought about his words. _He wasn't just talking about his family._ Sydney knew, somehow, that he compared his efforts to hers.

To how little hers had been. Sure, she made plenty of effort for the CIA, and to help Sark in these crises. But in everyday life? It was nothing compared to what Sark gave up—he'd altered his whole life.

And suddenly she knew why he favored this plan—why he would give it all up again and live a lonely life of regret and pain.

Because she wasn't willing to give up anything at all.

---------

She was kept in a room this time, separate from her father. But the rooms were lavish. They were also old. Ilene could smell the dust.

Victorian furniture and décor . . . four post bed with a canopy . . . large mirrors and wardrobes.

The wardrobe was even stocked, nothing as lavish as the room, but changes of clothes that Ilene appreciated after days of confinement.

The Brits kept the door locked. There was a window—she could open it, but it was barred on the outside. _Did they do that with prisoners in mind?_ She sighed, and decided to test the shower.

Fresh jeans and a t-shirt. Ilene added a sweater over it. It was cold out here, wherever here was. Ilene stood by the window, looking out at the expansive countryside. The area was remote; _better for Yielding's intentions._ She sighed again as she thought about the agent.

He was so intent on pretending he was the good guy. Justice mattered more than doing the right thing, and that annoyed her. _Like those people who poke their eyes out so they can't see what they're doing wrong_.

_Who actually pokes their own eyes out?_

She shook her head.

Suddenly she heard gunshots. She looked for the source, and found it outdoors.

In the middle of the field was Agent Yielding. He was firing several shots at a target more than 50 meters away. From her vantage point, Ilene could see the fierceness in his eyes.

And it made her sick. Ilene tried to shut the curtains to block out the sight. But the curtains fell heavily to the floor with her force.

Her eyes fell on a vase, and she picked it up in her rage. She threw it at the barred window, and it hit the glass. Both shattered loudly, shedding shards through the window and the bars.

"You pig!" she yelled as loudly as she could. She doubt Yielding would hear her, but she cursed him in her mind, over and over again. In her rage, she didn't realize the shooting stopped.

---------

He heard the crash—how could he not?—and automatically identified the source as Ilene's room. Alan sighed and holstered his gun.

_That girl is more trouble than her brother._ Sark was at least predictable. _He's a criminal; they're all predictable._

But Ilene was . . . a handful.

Yielding stormed inside the manor. It was normally a peaceful place, long ago abandoned by parliament. MI6 swooped in and purchased it, for "various operations." But its elegant charms were lost on Alan this time. While he normally enjoyed fulfilling his duty, Ilene was making it hard to do so this time. Her constant accusations annoyed him.

It was more than that, but Yielding banished the thought as he charged through the manor, until one of his agents, Agent Patricks, met him in a hallway.

"Agent Yielding," the agent said, "The crash was just a vase and the window, sir, from her room." Alan rolled his eyes. No one even called her by name. 'She' and 'her' could only refer to the most frustrating charge any of them had ever had.

"Any risk of her escaping?" he asked. Patricks shook his head. Alan nodded and moved on.

"Agent Yielding," the agent called out, halting Alan. He stopped and faced Patricks. "Would it be more prudent, under the circumstances, if we released her next?"

Yielding could feel his heart rate speed up, fueled by such second-guessing.

"No, the father will be next," he said quickly. "Sark followed Ilene to great lengths before. He'll do it again."

Alan turned and paced away from Patricks. A nagging voice in his head congratulated him for such quick thinking, but Alan ignored it. The decision was sound reason, nothing more or less.

_If you believe that_.

He sighed and went to his quarters. Yielding threw off his suit and quickly changed into something more comfortable--khaki cargoes, and a polo shirt. He went to his bag of things, packed specifically for this excursion, and he pulled out a sketch pad.

It wasn't something that he could admit to, or show to anyone in MI6. It was known that he had a hand for sketches, which he put to use to identify criminals. But he used the skill to relax as well.

He dug out a piece of graphite, sat at the desk, and started to sketch. Only two fingers touched the graphite, his thumb and middle finger. His hands moved over the paper, sometimes in long, curved strokes. Other movements were mere dots or spikes. Alan's eyes burned into the paper as he worked.

Alan labored steadily for fifteen minutes, until it was finished. The graphite was tossed aside, and also the pad of paper while Alan leaned back, away from the desk.

He didn't have to look at it. He didn't have to draw it. The image was someone he never met.

But the face was emblazoned in his mind from a surveillance photo he'd studied too long over the years.

_Justice.__ For you, Sean_. Alan nodded to himself, clutching his fists in an oath to himself to do what he'd promised—not just to his fallen comrade, but to his government and to his conscience. For the good of society overall.

A knock interrupted his concentration.

"Agent Yielding." It was Davenport, a lackluster agent with a penchant for conveniently moving slowly in dangerous raids.

"Yes," he acknowledged.

"She's asking for you," Davenport said. Yielding laughed tiredly. He rubbed his hands over his face.

"She can wait," he said. He could almost hear the objection Davenport debated on voicing, and then the shuffle of the agent's feet as he retreated. "Davenport."

The agent stopped. "Yes sir?"

"Find out where Sark is." He could almost hear him nod, and then there was quiet in the room.

Yielding leaned back in his chair, facing the windows. The sun had set, leaving a dark exterior and the freakish call of night life. Even with the closed windows, Alan could hear the crows crying out. It was haunting, but he was used to it.

Alan sighed, and his whole body loosened. His shoulders sagged, and his legs were rubbery. _You haven't slept in a while._

He pulled himself out of the chair and collapsed on the bed, landing on his stomach and chest. He didn't plan on sleeping long. _Just a few minutes . . ._ He fell asleep too quickly, but let himself go.

The crows had stopped their noise when he woke. The light in his quarters was still on, but he knew it was late. Alan glanced at his watch.

_Four a.m._ It was beyond late. _More like early_.

He rolled out of bed and straightened his polo shirt. He weaved a bit and had to grasp one of the bedposts to stand straight until the dizziness passed. He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. As he dried off the droplets of water, Alan caught his reflection in the mirror. The water got into his hair. He fingered through it and sighed.

He was up, for several hours at least. _Might as well do something._ A grin passed over his face as he came up with something to do.

Yielding left his quarters and walked through the manor. He made his footsteps quiet. Through the hallways were other agents, at their posts.

But sleeping.

Yielding frowned at their clueless forms. He walked right up to one agent and was about to yell into the man's ear when he had a change of heart.

_Let them rest, for now._ He himself hadn't slept; evidently, he wasn't alone. But he planned on chewing out the agents later.

Alan continued through the manor, up the stairs to where his bait stayed. Both guards on the floor were asleep.

Yielding paused outside the father's door, satisfied when he heard the man's obnoxious snoring. Alan couldn't help but smirk at that. He went on, and listened at Ilene's door. He heard stirring, which relieved him.

_At least she hasn't escaped_.

He raised his hand to knock on the door, and paused. _What are you going to do?_ He shrugged and knocked anyway. _She did ask for me a few hours ago._

But she didn't answer the door. Alan frowned. He knocked again, this time at least making one of the guards stir. But nothing from Ilene's room.

He quickly removed his set of keys and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, slowly, in case . . .

His eyes searched the dark room as he stepped inside. And then he saw something flying at his head. Alan ducked just as the last moment, and the object hit the wall noiselessly.

Another object came at him, this time with Ilene holding it. As it hit him, Yielding almost laughed.

_Pillows!_ _Her weapon of choice,_ he thought as he blocked a second swing. Ilene was tireless in her vigor to hit him. Alan managed to shut the door behind him and block another blow.

He caught an end of the pillow, and pulled it from Ilene's grasp. It was then that he noticed her eyes. They were furiously blue, alive and very obviously miffed. Her eyes stared at him as she slowed her breath from her exertion.

And then she reached for another weapon, this one a candlestick by her bed. Alan charged her, trying to close the distance and prevent the hit. He slammed into her, and the two of them fell back on the bed. The charge worked, but her elbow caught him in his back.

Alan grunted at that and pushed himself off of her. He stood up, and backed away from her, unable to hide a wince at the sharp pain that traveled up his nerves.

He swore under his breath.

"What do you want, Ilene?" he asked. He pulled his arm over his shoulder, trying to rub away the pain of her jab.

"What do _I_ want? You're the one who came here," she said with hands at her hips. Alan tried not to roll his eyes.

"Because you asked me to."

She threw up her hands like a drama queen. "Eight hours ago!"

_Oh please, I'm a near-perfect agent for MI6, and she thinks I'm a waiter?_

"I'm not at your beck and call."

She smiled victoriously, as if he stepped right in the trap she wanted. "And yet, here you are."

He rolled his eyes finally. "Fine." Alan turned to leave.

"You say you're a good guy, and yet you're preparing to shoot him." It seemingly came from nowhere. Alan stopped and turned back to her.__

"That's what this is about?" he asked.

"Don't look at me—you're the one shooting targets," Ilene said. Her mouth was curved in a tempestuous scowl. Alan had to sigh. He understood that no one would lie down peacefully while he went after someone they cared about. But this was his job, his duty. And Sark was dangerous.

"I don't know what your brother will do. He may—"

"What?" Ilene interrupted. "Kill your agents when he comes?"

Alan nodded with a stern scowl of his own. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Well, it would surprise _me_," she said, folding her arms this time.

"Better prepare yourself then," Alan said. He shook his head, more at her than anything, and turned to leave.

"I haven't had one Christmas with Julian since he was 16."

_Where did that come from? _"I'm sorry?"

Ilene continued. "I was kidnapped by Strachen on December 23rd—kind of kills Christmas."

Alan glanced around the room, making a show of his indifference. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? While there are children whose parents are dead because of what Sark does?"

Ilene threw her hands in the air, and Alan feared another rampage. But then she stopped, as if she suddenly checked her rage away. _For what?_

"When we were growing up, we had this tradition of opening up one gift each on Christmas Eve. We'd draw names of whose gift would be opened early in December. The gift opened would always be something . . . grand. Something really thoughtful or personal. Sometimes it'd even be expensive, but that wasn't the point." Ilene stopped, staring at the floor as if she was again composing herself. "Julian drew my name last year. I was really . . . I could hardly wait to see what he got me—especially being the first Christmas he was back."

Alan was trying not to roll his eyes, just as he was trying not to care what she was talking about. But he allowed himself one question of interest.

"So what did he get you?"

Ilene shrugged and dropped her arms to her sides. She stared into Alan's eyes. "I don't know. Things were too hectic, even after Strachen. Julian moved us to Canada," she said. "I guess he gave us a lot there. He bought my parents a house, me an apartment . . . Maybe those were the gifts." She paused again. "But I think he had something else."

Alan took a step towards her, bringing him within a meter of her. He told himself it was to see her eyes, to see if she was telling the truth or just trying to dent his emotional shield.

Those eyes were so blue and innocent. His heart sped up and he couldn't let go what it was telling him.

He leaned towards her, slowly, centimeter by centimeter. And she didn't move away.

His lips gently brushed hers, and he pulled back for a moment, gauging her reaction. He didn't see any as her eyes were on the floor. So he leaned in again . . .

And she tipped her head down, dodging his kiss.

He couldn't help but glare at her. _Was she purposely leading me on with the first move?_ Alan stepped away as anger flooded him.

"Well, I'll make sure Sark can get you something from whatever British prison he's incarcerated at."

Ilene pulled back like he'd slapped her. Her eyes were wide, not from any fury but actually hurt.

And then, as if she flipped a switch somewhere, her eyes were fiery.

"I hope he does come in here, shooting to kill you all."

He didn't answer that. He knew he deserved it. So Alan just turned and left. He slammed the door behind him, and the two sleeping guards jolted awake. Alan didn't even lecture them or shoot them a glare.

a/n: the drawing Yielding did was of Sark. I couldn't post it here, but oh well!


	7. Proving Yourself

Thanks to sallene for previewing and feedback!

Proving Yourself

Sark gathered his things quietly while Calvin and Sydney slept. He would wake them in a few minutes. He leaned over his bag to zip it shut, but a sharp pain in his side stopped him.

He took a deep breath and gently clutched the stab wound. His fingers grabbed the edge of his shirt, which he raised carefully. Sark studied the dressings on the wound. They were pink with his soaked blood. He sighed and took off his shirt.

_Where'd she put the medical supplies?_ He searched around for it for several minutes, digging into logical places but coming up empty-handed. Sark didn't want to wake her. He didn't want her to see him . . .vulnerable.

He checked her bag in the bathroom four times, and after that decided he didn't have a choice.

She didn't look very peaceful as she slept. _Glad to see I'm not the only one,_ Sark thought. He leaned over her and shook her shoulder.

"Sydney," he whispered. She stirred and her eyes fluttered open. In her eyes he saw a glimpse of joy, and then a rush of sorrow as she must have remembered the night before.

Sark bypassed that.

"Where are the bandages?" he asked. She just stared at him, processing what he said.

"Um," she started, sitting up in the bed, "in the drawer." She pointed at the nightstand between the beds.

Sark smiled tightly and got what he needed. He spread some ointment over the gauze and pressed it against his skin.

"Where did you go?" he heard Sydney ask. Her voice was soft, tentative. Sark slowed his pace in taping down the gauze. His eyes flickered to her, and then back to patching himself up.

"I contacted Irina," he said. "I asked her if she had anyone inside MI6."

Sydney sat up. "Does she?"

Sark nodded and turned for his shirt. "Yes. Yielding is at a manor in Scotland that MI6 bought years ago. But we don't have an address."

Sydney looked confused. "So we just have somewhere in Scotland to go on?"

Sark smirked at her. "No. The records of the purchase are in one of the government data storage facilities. The particular one we want is in Wales."

Sydney raised an eyebrow. "Well. We should go then."

Sark nodded and turned to Calvin. "Cal, wake up."

-------

Anglesey, Wales. Sydney knew someone whose last name was Anglesey. She wondered how the family factored into this area of Wales.

And then she realized it really didn't matter.

The records they needed were in a county building of sorts. It seemed ordinary enough, but the basement had security systems that seemed extreme for protecting civil marriage and death records.

They were on their way to the building, driving a rented SUV. Sydney finished braiding her hair as she watched Sark talk to Calvin.

"You're staying here, and there's no room for argument," Sark said sternly. Calvin groaned.

"Why? I can help, really!"

Sark shot him a look that clearly spelled disbelief.

Calvin held up his hands. "Okay, so it was bad luck that I sat by that white-haired chick at the club—"

"Who turned out to be an assassin," Sark said. "Do I need to say anymore?" Calvin tried to interrupt. "No, Cal, you stay in the car, and wait for us to come out. Don't leave the car at all."

Sark turned the car, and parked by the side of the road. He glared at Calvin through the rearview.

"Are we clear?"

Calvin sighed and nodded. Sydney tried to hide a smile.

"Let's go," Sydney said, tossing her finished braid over one shoulder.

Sark wore the tackiest fishing hat Sydney had ever seen. It was light green and had fish with large, gaping mouths printed all over it. His shirt was better, just plain blue. And he wore khaki shorts.

Shorts!! That just about did Sydney in there. But she knew Sark needed a little something to hide his identity, just in case some government clerk had a sharp eye. Whether that disguising element was the hat or shorts, she wasn't sure.

Sydney wore simple red Capri pants, and a white t-shirt. Nothing extravagant, but that was the point.

She glanced over her shoulder to the car. Calvin's shoulder sagged and she could tell he was sulking as she and Sark walked away.

As they entered the building, Sydney put her best ditsy face on. A male clerk at the window watched them approach.

Sark grabbed her arm, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him place a cheesy grin on his face. The contact surprised her. Their . . . argument from before still stung, but Sark always had a remarkable ability to ignore feelings. _Time to turn off your own emotions_, she thought.

"Yes?" the clerk said.

"We'd like to give notice of our upcoming marriage," Sark said. He wore the broadest smile Sydney had ever seen on him. It was freakish, but mainly because Sark just wasn't a smiler.

The clerk pulled out a form.

"Complete this. I'll need to see your identification too." The man didn't try to hide his boredom.

Sark pulled out a fake passport, while Sydney used a passport from one of her American aliases. As soon as the clerk saw her passport, he launched into rules.

"You aren't a resident?" he asked. Sydney stuttered a meaningless reply. "I need to see your entry papers, verifying your clearance to be in the UK."

"Isn't my passport enough?" Sydney said, blinking flirtatiously. The clerk wasn't impressed.

"Wait," Sark said, looking at Sydney with hopeful eyes, which were half-covered by his ridiculous hat. _How does he manage to look so gorgeous when he's wearing that hat?_ "She filed the papers with her residency request."

The clerk furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry?" Sark leaned forward, as if certain he was right.

"Yes, we called a couple of weeks ago and they instructed us to send you her clearance from the government, and her residency application," he said with a nod.

"Sir," the clerk began, "that's not our standard procedure for—"

"But you need the clearance, right?" Sydney asked, her voice teetering on tears. "I sent it in to you already. Is this going to hold up our marriage?"

On cue, she turned quickly from the clerk and buried her face in Sark's chest. She made her chest heave as if she were crying. Sark laid a comforting arm around her back.

_That felt so good_, she thought. _Right, focusing again._

"Sir, is it possible the clearance made it here? Where would it be kept?" Sark asked, showing his best concerned-fiancé face.

The clerk didn't say anything for a moment. Sydney couldn't see him, but she started to sob loudly. The clerk quickly spoke up.

"Perhaps it is in our storage area," he said. He moved around the counter and started walking for the stairs. Sark quickly followed him, with Sydney at his heels. She swiped at her makeup.

The clerk glanced over his shoulder and hesitated. Sydney knew they weren't supposed to follow, but she also knew the clerk would just let it go.

He did, and charged ahead.

The clerk led them downstairs to the basement. The room was littered with filing cabinets. The clerk went to a specific one, labeled "miscellaneous." Both Sark and Sydney let their eyes wander over the room. And both spotted the metal door.

_That's it_.

Sark quickly stepped towards the clerk, and before he could even sense anything was wrong, Sark hit him at the back of the neck. The clerk fell forward against the filing cabinet, and then slid to the floor like gelatin.

Sydney skipped to the metal door. There was a keypad next to it. Sydney dug through her oversized purse and removed a basic descrambler.

As it did its magic, she felt Sark brush against her arm. She flickered her eyes to him.

"You'd think they would protect their information better," she mused aloud.

"The data is mainly property records. Nothing too vital or threatening," Sark said. The keypad blinked a green light three times, and Sark opened the door for her.

"Thank you," Sydney said, and went through. And then she froze. There was something so normal in his gesture, but she knew it wasn't meant as politeness. _It was just a door!_ And even if it was a gentlemanly gesture, it wasn't unusual. Sark was always polite.

_Before, when we were . . . what were we? Dating?_ Another thought crossed her mind. _Does that mean we're not now?_ They argued and it'd been awkward since, but were things over?

"Sydney?" Sark called from a computer. She shook her head clear. _Over-analyze later, Syd._

Sark's eyes showed some amused concern at her random wandering. "I found a database to search. But it only points to the hard copy record."

"What?" Sydney asked. "Do we have the hard copy here?" Sark typed something in the computer.

"Just a moment," he said. _Again, politely! _Sydney rolled her eyes at herself. "I'm narrowing the MI6 properties down . . ."

He typed some more. Sydney started looking around the room for the first time. It was . . . sterilized. White walls, metal shelves, and racks of CD-ROMs. There were tons of the discs, stacked neatly but covering every inch of space on the shelves.

"It's on Disc 96381." Sark looked up from the computer. "Crap," he added, when he saw all the discs.

"They have to be organized," Sydney said, looking for labels among the stacks.

"Syd, we don't have much time."

"Then we better look quickly," she said. Her eyes scanned over numbers. There were so many. The numbers just blurred, going on forever, it seemed. Sydney moved around the room, but Sark beat her to it.

"Here it is," he said. He grabbed the disc and put it in the computer. He started writing something down on a piece of paper while Sydney watched him. His jaw was set and his eyes focused on what he wrote.

"Let's go," he said, folding up the paper.

They left quickly, heading out the front door of the building.

"That was easy," Sydney said. But she felt like it could still go wrong. Out of habit, she looked over her shoulder. But no one came yelling after them from the building. She looked ahead to the car, where Calvin sat. She saw him move, as if pointing at something.

_What?_

Suddenly Sark turned to face across the street. His body went rigid, and Sydney looked to see why.

She caught a glimpse of a man in a trench coat. He pulled something from the cover of the coat. She gasped as she realized what it was. The sawed-off shotgun came up and she heard the explosion from its barrels.

Sark's body rammed into hers. His weight purposely flattened her on the ground. Sydney's chest heaved with adrenaline, but with Sark on top of her, she could do nothing.

It didn't matter. Sark covered her with his body. He whipped out a gun—_where did he have it?—_and fired four shots in quick succession.

His jaw was set again, and his eyes never left his target. Sark spread his limbs to protect Sydney as much as possible. He didn't move after firing, but he watched. Sydney turned her head to see the fallen assassin.

He wouldn't move ever again.

Sark finally looked away as screams filled the air from terrified bystanders. He looked down at Sydney, and despite those screams, she couldn't help but look back into his eyes. His eyes were concerned but soft. They didn't communicate the standard 'are you okay' look. It was almost . . . yearning. Not the physical kind, but . . .

It was his soul looking into hers, asking why things weren't different. An unbelievably depressing sadness filled Sydney. She didn't have an answer to communicate, just the mutual pain. The pain from both realizing what the problem was.

A car's engine revved up and screeched to a halt beside where they lay.

"Uh, now would be good," Calvin said from the driver's seat. Sark nodded without looking away from Sydney.

They got up and into the car. Sark took over in the driver's seat, and they sped away.

"I told you I can help," Calvin said, a hint of a swelling ego in his voice. "I knew something was up with that guy."

Sark glanced at his brother and grinned. "Yes, Calvin. You did well." Cal turned in his seat to look back at Sydney. She smiled at his exuberance, until he looked away.

Then she stared out the window, seeing nothing in her mind but that look from Sark's eyes, and thinking about nothing but the sadness in those eyes.

-------

The evening was peaceful. Being in this large manor, with such solitude around her, it reminded Ilene of being in a classic English novel.

Except for Yielding and armed British agents everywhere—that put a damper on the mood.

She lay on her stomach on the bed, reading _Evelina_. It certainly was boring, but it distracted her thoughts from . . . other matters. Ilene turned a page in the book.

And then chucked it across the room.

She rolled over on her back and covered her face with her hands. A miserable sigh escaped her lips. She couldn't get Alan out of her mind.

_Yielding!_ She reminded herself to call him that. It made him colder, and therefore easier to hate. Ilene moved her hands to her hair and brushed her fingers through the red waves.

There was no mistaking that Alan—or Yielding—was intensely attractive. His lean build was accentuated by his height, and dark hair with those bright green eyes . . .

_Wow._

Ilene sat up suddenly. _I am _not_ falling for my captor_.

_What would Julian say if I was stockholming on this guy?_ She nodded her head to herself, as if that strengthened her resolve.

_I don't need any convincing to hate him_, she thought. _He kidnapped me! And he's planning on arresting Julian._

_Which is why I didn't kiss him._ She wanted to pat herself on the back for that, but part of her was screaming that she was a fool for not kissing him.

_And I'm dwelling on the whole kissing thing because . . ._

_ Right. I'm _not_ dwelling on it at all. Because I hate him._ She nodded again.

She heard something rattle at the door, and then it swung open. Her heart leapt and she subconsciously swiped a hand through her hair.

It was another agent. He was average height, average build, average looks . . . _Agent_ _Average_.

"Agent Yielding thought you might want to see your father," Average said. He stepped aside, and Ilene's father came into the room.

She noticed he threw a glare at the agent, but then erased it with a relieved and broad smile to Ilene.

"Dad!" She stowed away any disappointment and ran to her father. They hugged tightly. Ilene felt relieved that her dad was all right. But she hadn't really thought about him since being here. That annoyed her, but she threw that away for the moment.

"Are you all right? Have they hurt you in any way?" her dad asked. Ilene shook her head.

"No. You?"

Her dad shook his head as well. "Let's sit." He pointed to some elegant chairs in the room, one of which Ilene had considered breaking earlier that morning.

"Ilene, do you think your brother will make it here?" he asked. His hands were clasped together, a gesture of the concern that he was trying to control. Ilene glanced at those hands and then back at her father's face.

"He'll make it here, and probably soon," she said. "I think Yielding will release you before, just to make sure Julian finds this place."

"I won't let them release me without you," he said quickly. "They may use one of us to lure Julian in, but it has to be me."

Ilene half-smiled at her dad's stoic behavior. "Dad, I'm pretty sure they'll make me stay."

"I'm not leaving you here alone, with those—"

"I'll be fine," she said, flashing a reassuring smile. "I'm more worried about Julian."

Her dad looked confused. "But you said he'd make it here."

"Yes, but with all of them waiting for him," she said. She stopped, thinking about their predicament. "We have to help him."

"How?"

Ilene leaned forward in her chair. "Pay attention to the guards. When you're released, see how many are outside, where they are, how heavily armed they are—every detail that can help Julian."

She noticed her dad's perplexed look. He wasn't used to this kind of operational talk, especially from her. But Ilene had been around Julian enough to know what he would look for, what he'd do.

"Promise me, if they do make me go, that you'll be careful," her dad said, giving her a stern look as if she were about to go on a date.

Ilene smiled, a quick brief flash before thoughts of Yielding invaded her mind. Her eyes studied the floor as she thought.

"Dad, I don't think they'll . . . Yielding won't hurt me," she said. She could almost hear her dad's confused expression.

"He kidnapped us, Ilene," he said. His voice was full of skepticism. "That places him in the dangerous category."

"I know, and he started out really wanting to hurt Julian—"

"Not just Julian," he interrupted. "Us! He's been holding us illegally, and he threatened—"

"He started that way, Dad, but I think he's changing," Ilene said.

"People like him don't change," her dad said roughly. Ilene looked directly in her father's eyes.

"Julian did."

Her father sat back in his chair, and sighed. The two didn't say anything for several moments.

Ilene sighed as well. "Look, I'm just saying that . . . that I don't think Yielding is as bad as we thought. Maybe he's weighed down by what his government is telling him to do."

"He still has a job to do, whether he's 'changing' or not." Ilene's dad paused, clasping his hands again. "And we both know Julian won't forget that."

Ilene's breath caught in her throat. So far she'd only considered what Yielding would do, but her brother's reaction . . . . Julian didn't forget things, especially where she and her family were concerned. Yielding had said that Julian murdered Strachen.

_What will he do to Yielding?_

She still didn't know what Yielding would do to Julian. She couldn't trust him, even if she felt he wasn't so terrible.

Ilene brought a hand to her mouth as she thought.

_What will they do to each other?_

No matter what she thought or wanted to believe, a war was coming.

-------

Scotland hadn't changed in the day since they'd left. They weren't far from the manor, or at least that's why Julian said.

Calvin was tired of sitting around, but it was dark already, and they weren't planning on rescuing Ilene until tomorrow night. It made sense, he guessed, since they went to Wales and back today and narrowly avoided getting shot by a hitman.

_Courtesy of me_, Calvin thought with a smirk. He still was proud of himself for recognizing the man as an assassin, and for warning Julian before he struck.

Julian was sleeping now. It wasn't often that he slept while Calvin was awake. Normally Calvin was up playing video games or hanging out with friends. But Julian never slept until Calvin was in his room.

He awoke early too. _You'd think he would have ditched the 6 a.m. routine when he left the whole spy world_, Calvin thought. He shrugged. _At least he's actually getting some rest._

Calvin watched a film on the television. He glanced over at Sydney. She sat in a chair by the room's one table. Her feet were up on the other chair and her eyes were on Julian. In fact, every time Calvin had checked, she was watching his brother.

She must have sensed him watching her now, and glanced over to Calvin. She smiled, a little nervous twitch at being caught. Calvin grinned.

"He's nicer when he sleeps," he joked. Sydney smiled and looked away for a moment.

"He seems more innocent at least," she said. It was a heavy statement when it came to his brother. Calvin turned the television off and went over to Sydney. She pulled her feet back, allowing him to sit in the other chair.

"You must get tired of having to help Julian rescue us," he said, making conversation. He wanted to hit himself instantly for choosing such a subject. Sydney looked away, but then back again and she spoke.

"It's the least I could do," she said.

_What does _that_ mean!_ Calvin shifted in his seat.

"Cal," she started, as if suddenly voicing what she was thinking about, "does it seem like I'm not . . . I mean, am I gone too much?"

_And where did _that_ come from?!_ Calvin shifted in his seat again.

"Um, like, when things are normal?" It sounded more stupid out loud than in his head.

Sydney smiled to herself and shook her head. "It's okay. Let's talk about something else," she suggested. She put on her insta-smile. Calvin wasn't fluent on the subject known as Sydney Bristow, but he knew when her smile was fake.

"No," he said quickly, "it's okay." Calvin ran a hand through his hair. He rubbed it quickly. "Well, you have your life in Los Angeles. I mean, I know you still work for the CIA and all. That's a lot to handle." He smiled tightly, hoping that was the answer she was looking for. But it seemed to make her frown. Calvin piped up again. "I mean, you have your friends and family there too, so . . ."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and opened her mouth. She paused, mouth still open, but then pressed on. "What does Sark say, when I'm gone?"

_Danger, danger!_ He wasn't an expert in . . . well, anything, but he knew this question was loaded like a potato after a visit to the toppings bar.

Calvin shifted in his seat, again. "Well . . . nothing, really." Sydney leaned back in her chair. _She thinks I'm not telling her everything._ He wasn't about to disappoint her, partially because she was the one and only, extremely gorgeous Sydney Bristow, and partially because he wasn't unaware of the tension between her and Julian.

"I mean, he doesn't say much," he said. "Julian kind of . . . he isn't the most personable guy when you're not around."

Sydney raised an eyebrow at that. "Has he ever been Mr. Friendly?"

Calvin shrugged with a consenting nod. "It's not that he's mean, though. He still talks to me and all. But he spends a lot more time alone. Even if we're in the same room, he's off somewhere else in his mind, thinking about . . . something."

Sydney swallowed hard, and for a brief moment of horror, Calvin thought she was going to cry. She didn't, but asked another question. "Do you think it's because of me that he's that way?"

_Sheesh, just keep piling it on with the questions_, he thought sarcastically. "I don't know what he thinks about. And Julian's not shallow enough to be so down just because of how much time you don't spend together," he said. "Maybe it's something else."

He didn't really know where that came from, but it seemed to hit Sydney. She stared at the floor, her eyes filled with guilt.

"He is happier with you, you know," Calvin added, hoping to make up for whatever feelings he just stomped on.

She nodded, again and again, to herself. And then she looked up and smiled at him.

"Thanks, Calvin."


	8. Ring Ring

a/n: Thanks to sallene for her help!

Ring Ring

Sark answered the phone as he peaked out the hostel's window. A stream of light filtered in.

"Yes," he said stiffly.

"Julian, it's Dad." He knew relief should have been his first feeling, but instead it was tension.

"Where are you?" He listened to his dad's answer, and felt his muscles tighten even more.

"Walk to the street, where it's busiest by the stores. We'll come get you." He hung up, knowing his dad would be put out by that. But it was safer.

"Sark?" It was Sydney. Sark turned from the window to face her.

"Sydney. I need you to do me a favor."

As soon as he explained, Sydney left, running out the door to go meet his dad and bring him to relative safety.

"Is Dad going to help us get Ilene?" Calvin asked. Sark didn't answer. He knew his brother wouldn't like what he was planning. Sark picked up his cell phone and called a number he normally dreaded.

"This is Bristow," came that voice that Sark knew every human (and some animals) should fear.

"Jack," Sark said. "How's my mother doing?"

There was a tense pause, and Sark could almost read the man's thoughts. _How could I have the audacity to call him directly?_ Or something like that. Sark smirked into the phone.

"Your mother has to be one of the most annoying people on earth who's still breathing." His voice was deadpan, but it made Sark smile.

"Well, she'll probably be easier to manage with my father and brother there," Sark said. He waited for Sydney's father to pick up on what he meant.

"Your father? Has he been released?"

"Yes. Sydney's picking him up as we speak," Sark said. "Jack, I know it's a lot to ask, especially from you, but could you look after my parents and brother?"

"What?"

Sark swallowed a laugh at the man's horrified tone. "I'm sending my dad and Calvin to you, while Sydney and I rescue Ilene." _And end this mess_, he didn't add.

"Aren't I staying here?" Calvin whispered loudly, trying to sway his brother. Sark shook his head and turned away from his brother.

"Jack?" Sark said, wondering why the man hadn't answered.

"My agreement to do this is solely because of my daughter's regard for you. As long as you understand that, I'll watch over them," Jack said.

Sark smirked. "I love you, too, Jack." He laughed, something that Jack probably never heard before. "I'll send them on the next flight out."

He hung up before Jack could change his mind, or chew him out.

"Julian, you're sending me away?" Calvin's face was a combination of sadness and confusion. "I thought I was helping."

"Cal," Sark began, "I need you to look after Mom and Dad—"

"Cut the crap," Calvin said quickly. He suddenly looked angry, an emotion Sark doubted he ever saw from him. "Sydney's dad is looking out for them, and me apparently." Cal crossed his arms and stood straight. "You can't just dismiss me. I want to help."

Sark, however, did know his brother's stubbornness. It was a trait he normally found in himself. But this was no time for arguing. Not when Sark knew what he had to do to free Ilene, and to end this.

He didn't want to be cross with his brother, especially knowing what Calvin would go through in the future. _But it's for the best. _So he let his eyes freeze over and set his jaw tightly.

"You're going with Dad. I can't afford anymore liabilities tonight. Now get your things together, quickly."

He walked past his brother and over to a bag full of weapons Sydney obtained earlier. His fingers brushed the metal of guns and stun grenades. _Stun?_ Sark grabbed one of the grenades. It wasn't an actual explosive, but a flash bang, meant to disorient. He grabbed a gun next, and sighed.

It was a tranquilizer gun. Sark dug through the rest of the bag. _Tranq gun, another tranq gun, clips of tranquilizers, flash bangs, rope, grappling hook, plastic ties—_

_Sydney_. Of course. Her version of weapons weren't what Sark would have chosen. _She's playing it safe._

He sighed again, bowing his head as he tried to tell himself it was all right. Sydney was just trying to save innocent lives—

_But they're not innocent! They kidnapped my family!_ Sark looked over to where he had his gun, one with actual bullets. _At least I have that._ Sark zipped up the bag quickly, nearly burning his fingertips as he did. His fists were tightly clenched.

_It doesn't matter._ _Just get Ilene back, and move on to the next step_. He didn't think about that step yet. He didn't really want to think about it in detail while Calvin was around.

The door opened suddenly, and Henry came rushing in, with Sydney behind.

"Julian! Calvin!" Their dad gave each of them a stern hug.

"Dad," Sark started as he was hugged, "we don't have much time. You and Calvin need to leave the country as soon as possibly."

Henry stopped and looked directly into his son's eyes. "Julian, I tried to see what I could as they let me go. I know there are lots of agents, but they blindfolded me as I left. I couldn't—"

"It's all right," Sark interrupted. "We'll still get Ilene." He smiled tightly, but his façade didn't assuage his father's fears.

"They told me, right before they released me, that they would hold Ilene indefinitely if you don't turn yourself in. And . . . that they couldn't guarantee her safety much longer." Henry looked like he was going to either wail or smash something.

"It doesn't matter, Dad," Sark said. "I promise you, Ilene will be free by morning." His blue eyes didn't waver, and his dad slowly nodded. Sark suddenly looked to Sydney.

"Syd, can you take them to the airport?"

She nodded, and motioned to the door. "Henry, Calvin, we should go."

Sark was grateful that she was hurrying this. He didn't want the awkward goodbye, the send-off before this op. But his dad hugged him again, as did Calvin, despite the scowl on his face.

"Take care of them," Sark whispered in his brother's ear. Calvin nodded. He gave one last look at his brother, and left the room.

Sark sighed when they finally left. He fell back on a bed and stared at the cottage cheese ceiling.

_So Yielding finally made a threat_. Sark's dad seemed disturbed enough by the threat that maybe Yielding would go through with it. _Or maybe he just wants to make sure I'll come, especially when he keeps nicely releasing his hostages._

It didn't matter. _I'm finishing this_. No more liabilities. No more threats, not against his family. Not ever again. And he would make certain that the message got to everyone.

With that thought, he picked up his phone. He took a deep breath as he dialed the number.

"It's Sark. I have a job for you."

"What?" asked a thick Portuguese accent.

"An assassination."

--------

Sydney's eyes kept flickering to the rearview mirror. She knew Henry and Calvin were off safely, and that her dad would pick them up in Canada. But being in Scotland, so close to the manor where MI6 and Ilene were, made Sydney nervous. She wasn't sure if the cars behind her were merely fellow travelers, people going home from work, or what. Her fears lightened as she neared the hostel. The hostel itself was several kilometers from the manor, and the manor—well, there wasn't anything around it.

She sighed as she pulled up to the hostel. Sark was inside, alone, and soon it'd just be her and him—alone. Calvin over the last few days had at least provided a buffer. Now that was gone. And Sydney didn't know what she could say to Sark.

_For two people who've been seeing each other for several months, we're certainly not very comfortable around each other_. She frowned at herself in the rearview mirror's reflection. _And you know why_.

She got out of the car and went to their room.

He was studying a map over the room's round table. His body leaned over the tabletop, and his eyes didn't even glance in her direction as she came in.

_And so it begins_.

"They're on the plane," she said a little loudly, trying to break the ice she felt. Sark nodded, but still didn't look at her.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was flat.

Sydney tried again. "What are you doing?"

"Planning out tonight," he said. "You should rest." Sydney opened her mouth to object, but then stopped.

Sark was too cold right now. Maybe it was the pressure of the night's op. But Sydney felt shut out.

She bypassed the sigh she wanted to let out, and instead lay down on the bed, facing Sark. Sydney lay on her side with her hands under the side of her face. She watched him, that studious focus in his eyes—the cool indifference that spelt out determination. With his façade came distance. It'd been some time since he kept her at arm's length.

Sydney couldn't blame him. It's just how he was. And she pushed him away first, with the CIA. Though she knew he understood what her job meant to her at one time, he seemed to expect her to not like it anymore. He was right.

Working with the CIA wasn't the dream job. It wasn't even part of any dream, not anymore. She had been in too long, and too deep. There was no black and white, right and wrong. Her own actions, even CIA-sanctioned actions, proved that. Criminals weren't the devil. They didn't all deserve to be arrested and to pay for their crimes. They didn't all deserve to die. Some had suffered enough, or made atonement in some way.

Sark was a prime example. Dixon, her father, and a few others even agreed. But the government as a whole did not see it that way. Not everyone could forgive him for his crimes. And Sark couldn't hide forever.

_So where does that leave me?_ Sydney studied Sark's lean body as he continued to pour over the map and make notes in his mind. His hands braced against the table as he leaned over it. He raised a hand and brushed a finger over his mouth. He often did that when he was thinking.

There were too many things that she just couldn't forget. Not his past, but just him. The details that made up Sark. That undying love and concern for his family, for her even. The funny random curls in his hair. The different shades of blue that his eyes turned. Those awkward smiles that he flashed, as if the smile was an unknown phenomenon to him. The strong jaw line that always turned to steel when he was determined. The way he looked at her.

She couldn't ignore it._ I love him_. And Sydney knew Sark loved her. _So much that he's willing to leave me behind so I can have the 'normal' life_.

_Sacrificing_. She added that to the list of those traits she couldn't ignore in the blonde spy. He suddenly glanced at her, and a flicker of annoyance surfaced in his eyes.

"What?" he asked somewhat testily. He hated it when he knew someone was watching him, something Sydney knew.

"Just thinking," she said with a shrug. But her eyes kept watching him, and Sark stood up straight with a sigh. He leaned against the nearest wall and stared at her.

"About what?" From his tone, it was as if he was bringing up the question for her sake, like how women gently lead a conversation until they get to where they want. Sydney didn't intend it, but she thought she might as well run with it.

"You."

His eyebrows twitched, the only inclination of surprise that she saw.

"Oh," was all he said next. He stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable, and went back to his map. _He hates being the center of attention_. Sydney sat up and walked over to him.

And then she stopped. She was less than an arm's length away, and he knew it, but she didn't say anything. She just stared at him and argued with herself about what she wanted to say.

_Words aren't always the best ways to communicate_. Slowly, she reached out to him, her fingertips grazing his hand. His body tensed immediately, but he didn't look away from the map. Her hand gently moved up, running up his arm until she grasped his bicep. She pulled him towards her, turning his body to face hers.

She looked at his face, and searched his eyes, which were avoiding her. Sydney let her hands wander to his face. She held it steady so he had to look at her. And then she saw why he was avoiding her. That same sadness from Wales was in his eyes, but also a struggle.

It was a struggle she'd seen before. Sark, trying to avoid emotion, trying to be brave because he knew what unpleasantries lie ahead. Sark, just being Sark.

"Julian." It was a whisper but a purposeful reminder. He stared back at her, wondering what she would do next.

Sydney's fingers stroked his skin, barely probing the skin on his face as if she were looking for something. She didn't look into his eyes, but moved her gaze over every detail of his face.

He closed his eyes at her touch, and she felt him exhale. Her hands moved behind his neck and she pulled him to her. She stretched her body, standing on tip-toes to bring herself even closer to him.

Her lips caressed over where her fingers had touched his face. She planted light kisses over his cheek, his jaw, a light trail above his lips . . .

He stood motionless, just letting her wander. His body was still tense, but the tight muscles loosened with each kiss. His eyes remained closed. Sydney paused for a moment and just looked at him. He always looked so innocent with his eyes closed. It was partially just because he looked adorable, but it was also because his eyes, and the pain within them, was hidden.

She treasured the image, locked it away in her mind and heart. And then she let her hands slide down his back until they rested at his hips.

Her lips pressed against his. No longer were the kisses light and tentative, but neither were they hot and passionate. They were simply expressions.

Sark didn't kiss back, and that was fine. This wasn't a moment of escalating passion between them. He seemed to read into her, to know that she needed to say something, but without stumbling words.

She pulled back and just stared at him again. He opened his eyes, unhurried. With every part of her soul, Sydney's gaze pierced into him. Her heart sped up and her chest started to expand and contract rapidly. She could feel the tears starting to come, and that's when he interrupted.

"Sydney," he whispered in the room's silence. He let his hands move from his sides, and wiped away the unshed tears. His hands were warm, but not sweaty. He brushed her hair away from her face, peering at her and the pools in her eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat as he finally leaned down. His lips pushed into hers, not hard or greedy, but slowly and purposefully. She let her eyes shut and just savored the feel of his mouth opening and closing over hers.

She didn't want him to pull away, ever. But he did, and she noticed the regret he tried to hide. Neither said a word, but the longing looks continued.

Finally, Sydney looked away.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need you." She said it, and now she waited.

Sark let his arms drop back to his sides, and turned away.

"We should get ready."

--------

"Agent Yielding," Davenport called out. Alan tried not to sigh but stopped his strong pace so the agent could catch up in the hallway.

"What news?" Alan asked.

"He evaded another assassin, in Wales," Davenport said. Alan didn't try to hide his confusion.

"Wales?"

"Anglesey, to be specific," the agent relayed. "Outside a local government building, which housed some records relevant to MI6."

"Anglesey," Alan repeated. He held a hand to his forehead like he was seeing if he had a fever. But something about Anglesey . . . "Property records," he realized with a laugh.

"Yes sir," Davenport confirmed. "Sark knocked out the clerk there."

"Clever," Alan said, but not about knocking out the clerk. _How did he know about the records?_ He expected Sark to find their location, but not through any official means. _Did he bribe someone? Is there a mole?_ He rubbed his forehead again. He didn't want to worry about a mole right now. He just wanted Sark . . . gone. Dealt with.

Dead, if necessary.

_After all, he somehow broke into a government facility._ Whatever his means, he deserved to pay. _For Sean_.

"What about the father?" Alan asked suddenly. Davenport's mouth hung open as he thought about it.

"We, uh, we released him," he said. "But then we lost him."

Alan suppressed a groan at the incompetence of the men around him. "Spread the word. Expect Sark tonight." Alan started to walk off.

"Is he to be captured alive, sir?"

He paused and turned back to Davenport. "Our orders are to capture him, dead or alive. Whatever is necessary."

Alan stalked through the manor, thinking about what he would do when he encountered Sark. He knew he would. Sark wouldn't be caught by his men. He was too smart for that, too determined. Alan planned to be right by the bait.

Ilene.

But to guard her, and to ensure he could capture Sark.

_Even if I have to use her as a bargaining chip_. He changed his course and went up to her room.

He didn't bother to knock, but just barged into her room.

And as soon as he saw her, he wanted to retreat. She was asleep on the bed, dressed in jeans and a pullover. Her body lay above the covers, and her face just seemed so serene.

He wanted to kiss her, again. _Not a good idea_, he thought. But he moved to her, watching her sleep.

The red hair was intoxicating. He'd never really cared for Irish women. The supposed headstrong nature and legendary red hair—it was about as consistently true as all English men having large noses. But Ilene was different.

She _was_ headstrong, but very caring as well. Passionate—that was the word for her.

She stirred, as if she could sense someone was watching her. Alan's body tensed, and he cleared his throat to try to wake her.

Her eyes fluttered a bit.

"Ilene," he said. Suddenly she bolted upright. Her hands flew to her face, rubbing her eyes and brushing her hair back.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. Alan didn't miss the hint of fear in her voice. _Or is that nervousness?_

"It's time," he said, adding a rough authoritarian edge to his voice. He leaned over her and grabbed her arm. "Let's go."

She didn't object, but her face was hard. He tried to ignore the anger within her. The two walked through the manor. Other agents watched them as they passed. Alan nodded to each, seeing each man straighten and puff up as if mentally ready for the night's coming challenge.

A slice of the sun lingered over the hilltops. Only its light shone in the manor. All other lights were off. It was strategic. He knew the layout of the manor. He knew his men and where they would be.

Sark did not. Every advantage would help.

Ilene seemed tense. _Did you expect relaxation?_ Alan bit his lip, as if that silence his thoughts. But Ilene's eyes darted around. She examined each agent in passing, looked all around the manor, and seemed to nod to herself as if she added something to memory.

_Surveillance._

"You're trying to learn the layout, aren't you?" Alan said. He shook his head, amazed at the girl's persistence.

"You would too, if you were in my situation," she said with a tilt of her chin in the air.

"For what purpose? You won't be able to warn him," Alan said. She shrugged and didn't answer.

_Stubborn girl._

They headed down endless amounts of stairs, even to the depths of a basement. He heard Ilene sigh. There was something in it, sarcastic . . .

"What?" he asked. Ilene shrugged again. Alan rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on her arm.

"What?!" he repeated.

"Fine," she said. She used her free arm to motion around the dank basement. "Predictable, don't you think? The 'dungeon' of the scary mansion." She shrugged again and didn't even bother to hide a smirk. "It's your funeral."

"We'll be fine," Alan said, and pushed her in front of him. Inside, though, he was thinking about what she said. The basement wasn't dank, but it wasn't nice either. He had to turn on a lamp to light the way, and that wasn't smart.

_It'll lead __Sark__ here though. To a basement with one way in and out._

_ So you'll be trapped too._

He pushed her in the corner of a small room, and shut an old door behind them. The dim light settled over them, as did silence.

Or awkwardness. Alan couldn't help but feel unnerved by Ilene's observation. That, and she kept shooting him teasing looks. _Damn that woman!_

He sighed, and pulled out his gun. _Something to do._ He checked his clip and slammed it back into the butt of the gun. He felt his pockets for additional clips.

He flicked the safety on, and just held the gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ilene cross her arms and scowl. He knew what she was thinking.

_I'll only kill him if I have to_. He didn't look at Ilene, but let himself remember Sean. He remembered the funeral, and how he never got to really see his friend again. Not the way he normally looked. It was a closed-casket funeral. Sean's other friends and family couldn't see the bullet holes, but Alan had to see the body. He was there to collect it, after Sark left him to rot.

His grip tightened on the gun's handle.

_For Sean_, he told himself. _For Sean._

Something suddenly crashed above them, like glass. The impact's noise made Ilene jump, and Alan got to his feet.

"Guess who's here," he said with a delighted smirk. Ilene just glared at him, while Alan's heart sped up as adrenaline started to pump through his veins.

_Show time._


	9. Show Time, Indeed

a/n: Thank you to sallene for her patience in previewing this!

**Show Time, Indeed**

Neither one moved as they listened for any noise above them. Alan looked away from the low ceiling and down at his watch.

It was only 2000 hours. Sure, it was probably dark enough now, but still---_It's too early_.

They listened intently for several more minutes, hearing nothing to cause alarm. Alan pulled out his cell phone and called Davenport.

"Yes sir?"

"What the hell was that noise?" Alan demanded. He heard light laughter in the background.

"Uh, just a vase, sir. We, uh, well, it's all tidy now."

_Moron__._ Alan hung up without another word.

--------

Boredom was one thing when you were alone. At least you were comfortable enough by yourself to think about anything, or do anything. But being stuck in a small room with the epitome of awkwardness just turned boredom into torture.

Ilene sat and avoided any communication with Yielding for three hours. She shifted in her seat, finding new ways to be uncomfortable. Her eyes found every speck of dirt on the floor, walls and ceiling.

She breathed out quietly, not wanting to attract his attention. _What has he been thinking about for the last three hours? _Her eyes found the floor again, and slowly made their way to his feet and up to his face.

He was looking directly at her. Ilene tried not to jump in her seat, but she couldn't help but let her eyes dart away from him as quickly as possible.

_How long has he been looking at me?_ It was unnerving, especially since she hated him. Or ordered herself to hate him, anyway. _Is he still looking?_

Her gaze meandered to him again, only to find his green eyes still staring into her.

"What!" she yelled. He didn't even flinch, but slowly allowed a snotty smile to spread over his face.

"I was wondering when you'd notice," he said. Ilene sighed and groaned at the same time.

"You've been staring at me on purpose? Why, to annoy me?"

Alan's expression grew wider. "Maybe."

Ilene huffed at that and folded her arms in front of her. "You are such a little boy." He raised an eyebrow at that.

"I'm older than you are, so I don't think 'little boy' really is accurate," he said. "How old are you anyway?"

It was Ilene's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Just curious," he replied with a shrug. _Doubtful_, Ilene thought.

"You first," she said, setting her jaw in its stubborn stance.

"Me first? What, are you embarrassed?" Yielding chided. "You can't be that old."

"Old? Hardly. But why should I answer you?" she challenged.

"Because you're in my custody and will do what I say."

Ilene threw her hands in the air and turned to face the wall. "Such a little boy," she muttered to herself. She heard him chuckle at her back, and that just aggravated her. She wanted to turn around and smack that snotty smile off his face.

"Twenty-nine," she heard him say. "I recently turned twenty-nine."

_Not too old_. She sat up straighter at that, realizing the thought was treading down a path she just didn't want to deal with now. Ilene turned around to face the agent.

"I turn 23 next month," she said. Her eyes never found his, and she folded her arms again to keep from fidgeting.

"That's not too far apart," Yielding said, as if thinking aloud.

Ilene froze. _Far apart for what?__ What does that mean?_ Yielding coughed, and Ilene could tell it was fake. It only accentuated the comment. Suddenly he stood up.

"Let's, uh . . ." he stumbled, "go upstairs. We'll wait for your brother up there." He swung the door open a little too forcefully, but stopped it from slamming into the wall and held it open for her.

They went upstairs, but this time Alan—or Yielding—let her lead the way. She didn't know where they were going, but at least this time he didn't touch her. _That would just make things more awkward_.

Not that she minded his touch. _Shut up. 'Yielding' equals 'bad guy,' remember?_ She shook her head and just focused on the dimly lit stairwell.

The manor was still dark, and in that darkness she could hear restless agents.

"To the left," Yielding said suddenly. Ilene changed directions and paced through the halls.

The manor actually looked fairly frightening at night. Every elaborate piece of furniture was bathed in a blue shadow. It made everything look older, and it made Ilene nervous. They passed one, only to have it move and reveal the agent Yielding called Davenport.

_Might as well be haunted_, Ilene thought.

"Stay sharp, everyone," Yielding said randomly. She saw shadows nod their heads.

Yielding and Ilene walked on, through a large dining room and—

Glass shattered and men screamed quietly in comparison to the loud explosion. Ilene ducked instinctively, falling to her knees and covering her head. Pieces of drywall fell with a clatter to the marble floors.

And then gunfire followed. Ilene didn't know who was shooting, but she screamed. Suddenly someone picked her up and dragged her through the dining room and into the kitchen. A hand clamped over her mouth.

Her chest was expanding quickly, contracting even faster. She was dropped to the floor, and suddenly Yielding was in front of her, his hand still covering her mouth.

His other hand held his gun, and Ilene saw his thumb flick off the safety. His eyes weren't on her, but on the doorway leading to the rest of the manor.

The gunfire stopped, and Yielding let go of Ilene. The agents still moved around the manor. Ilene could hear crunching glass as they ran.

Another shot rang out, and then nothing again.

Something fell, a muffled but hard fall.

_A body_. Ilene knew it, and Yielding tensed considerably. Out of the blue, he grabbed her again, whirling her around in his arms, and then she felt the blunt steel of the gun at her head. Her eyes flew open in panic.

"What? How could you?!" she hissed. "I thought we—"

"You thought wrong," he hissed back. "Not a word." With that, he tightened his hold on her. Her heart rate didn't let up for a second.

_Why is he doing this!_ His hold around her body was starting to hurt her; he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his body, and so tight that she could feel the impressions of his arms on her skin.

_He's actually going to hurt me_.

-------

"You thought wrong," Alan hissed in her ear. "Not a word."

_That's right! Embrace the soldier within!_

He pushed aside the regret starting to surface. _Sark's__ too close, and you're not ready!_

_The stairway_. Yielding suddenly pulled Ilene with him, his gun to her head. Of course, he wouldn't shoot her, but Sark was here. _It's justified_.

The kitchen stairwell led to the bedrooms on the second and third floors. It was really just convenience for the master of the manor, so the servants could deliver meals more readily. It made for a great alternate escape in this case.

Ilene was tense in his arms, and her breathing hadn't slowed yet. She hadn't made one noise yet either, which actually surprised him. He figured she would have yelled as soon as he told her not to. Typical, but not. She seemed to be afraid.

Alan didn't quite like that thought. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt an innocent, even this infuriating but gorgeous girl. _But she thinks I will_.

He blinked once, clearing his mind. _Sark__, remember? You have a duty, and promise, to fulfill._ They made it up to the second floor, and it was eerily quiet.

There hadn't been another shot in a full minute. _What are the others doing?!_ Yielding peered around the staircase to survey the floor's hallway.

There was a body. Yielding's throat tightened. He pushed forward, with Ilene stumbling in his moves. They both knelt by the body's side. It was one of his agents. Yielding felt for a pulse.

It was strong.

_What?_ Alan looked from the man's neck to his chest. The end of a dart stuck out of the man's clothes. _Tranquilizers_.

_He's actually using tranquilizers?!_ Yielding held back a laugh. _This is going to be easier than I thought_.

Suddenly another explosion rattled the manor. It came from the kitchen, but Yielding could feel the pressure through the stairwell. It knocked him off his feet, and he fell on his back, with Ilene on top of him.

_Flash bangs_, he thought. Alan pushed Ilene off him and quickly got to his feet again. Ilene started to get up and scramble away from him. Alan pursed his lips and nabbed her again.

He grabbed her hand, holding it so tightly it hurt his own hand. He pulled her along and they quickly took the main stairs up to the next level.

_Get organized, quickly!_ Alan knew he was reacting, not strategizing. He hadn't expected Sark to come in so . . . boldly. Explosions? It wasn't his usual style.

Yielding ran full speed to the end of the hall, and down to the south wing of the manor. Ilene had no choice to follow.

Alan chose the last room. It was another corner, but that served a purpose for him. There were two windows, one on the south wall and one on the west.

Yielding held Ilene close to him again, and repositioned his gun to her head. His hand clamped over her mouth again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He didn't expect forgiveness, not now anyway. He just tightened his hold again, and waited. _Come and get her, Sark_.

More shots were fired below them. _Second floor.__ Keep coming, _he thought, as if he were directing the terrorist.

It grew quiet again, except for Ilene's labored breathing. Her hair tickled his chin. Alan moved his head, and glanced around the room. There was another door, besides the bathroom.

_Another entrance to the room?_ He didn't think any of the bedrooms connected to each other. _Not a good choice for a trap_. He loosened his hold on Ilene, ready to move again.

"Agent Yielding," he heard behind him. The tip of a gun was jammed roughly against his skull. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

------

The agent didn't wet his pants, which Sark had to give him credit for. But he was obviously caught off guard.

Sark couldn't see Ilene's face from his position, but she seemed all right. He was behind Yielding and to the side of him, in the perfect blind spot. The agent didn't even hear him enter the room before.

Ilene breathed loudly against Yielding's hand. The gun to her head cued a current of rage through Sark.

"Let her go, now," he ordered. His voice was extremely even, which pleased him. If this Yielding fellow thought he was such a terrible criminal, he wanted to prove him right.

"Or what? You'll shoot me in the head with a tranquilizer?" Yielding replied. His tone mocked Sark.__

"I thought you would be happy I didn't kill them," Sark said with a touch of levity. Yielding snorted.

"Of course. It's your funeral."

Sark narrowed his eyes, glaring at the back of the man's head. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he smirked as he fired two rounds.

The bullets exploded in the silence of the room, zinged by Yielding's head and slammed into the wall. Ilene shrieked, and a spray of paint dust and drywall fell to the floor. Yielding didn't move, but Sark noticed the man's rigid posture.

"The funeral will be yours, Agent Yielding," Sark hissed in the man's ear. "The tranqs were only for your men. Not you."

Yielding suddenly pushed Ilene away, and swung an arm towards Sark. It caught his gun, sending it flying in the room. Yielding moved to push Sark away, no doubt to give him distance for a shot. Sark's eyes narrowed at the agent, and he charged him.

His shoulder rammed into Yielding's stomach, and the two men fell backwards by a wall. Another explosion rattled through the building, this one just down the hall. Yielding ducked automatically, giving Sark a window to land a punch to the man's face. _He expected me to be alone_, Sark thought with a smirk. He hit the agent again, and heard Ilene gasp.

Sark looked up, and saw a painting teetering from its hook because of the flash bang. The painting was massive. _It's going to fall_. Sark pushed his weight off Yielding and fell back. The painting fell.

Yielding twisted his body to the side as the frame and glass shattered by him. For some reason, Sark just waited. But a second later, he pounced on Yielding. The agent was ready and they tumbled over the glass and gilded wood. Splinters of both materials sank into Sark's clothing, and into his skin. He relished the pain for now, especially as he saw Yielding wince.

Sark ended up on his back, fending off a blow from Yielding. He caught one fist, but Yielding followed with another. It landed on his jaw, sending little sparks into Sark's vision.

He pushed hard, and Yielding fell backwards. Sark jumped to his feet and ran to the agent's side, kicking the man in the side. He smiled as he heard Yielding groan. Sark kicked him again, and again.

Then Yielding caught his foot and yanked hard. Sark landed on his side, but that didn't stop him from kicking out again.

Yielding slithered away and towards his gun. Sark looked back as his own weapon in an opposite corner. He dove for it, grabbing it as he lay on the floor, and then twisted his body to face his threat.

Yielding had his gun aimed at Sark already.

"Drop it," he ordered. Sark's gun didn't hold Yielding in its sights. "Toss the gun to me, now."

He glared at the agent, but tossed the gun away. _I don't need it to kill him_. The gun tumbled at Yielding's feet.

"Put the gun down," came a refreshing voice from the hall. Sark let his eyes wander to see her.

"Sydney!" Ilene cried out. His sister was on the bed, up against the headboard. She didn't dare move, and Sark was glad. _No sense getting caught in the crossfire._

Yielding glanced at Sydney. "You must be the CIA agent enraptured with this terrorist."

Sark saw Sydney's eyes narrow, and he couldn't help but smirk.

"My business, not yours," she replied shortly.

"Well, I have a duty to fulfill," Yielding said. He didn't lower his gun, but Sark saw his finger tense over the trigger. But he didn't pull it.

_He can't even kill me_, Sark thought. Sydney saw it too.

Ilene glared at Yielding as he hesitated.

"What, afraid of witnesses?" she said, daunting him. She glanced at Sark, and he was wondering what on earth she was doing._ Just be silent, Ilene_, he thought.

Yielding sighed, almost more a frustrated yelp. He let his arms fall, giving up his aim at Sark, and turned to his sister. "Don't you get it?!" he practically yelled. His glare at Ilene struck Sark as odd. _That's not anger, but . . . what?_ Something was up.

"I'm in love with you, despite your family and terrorist connections, and it's making it damn hard to do my job!" Yielding shouted.

Ilene and Sark just stared at the man, utterly confused.

"What?" they said in unison. Sydney's grip on her gun loosened. She looked just as confused. _What is going on?_

Ilene moved off the bed, toward Yielding. "You said I was wrong, remember?" she said. The agent rolled his eyes.

"I could have let you go first and still had Sark come here," Yielding said. "But you are . . . annoyingly good at making me forget the whole situation, even Sean."

_Sean_, Sark thought. _Oh--the MI6 agent I killed_. He watched Ilene, who was appearing less confused by the second, and more . . . touched. Sark rolled his eyes.

"Ilene," he said smoothly, "care to fill us in?"

But his sister seemed lost in the moment. "You kept me around because you . . . liked me?"

_Kill me now_. Sark turned to Sydney, as if to beg for the bullet to his brain. But Sydney seemed less tense and more smiley by the second. Yielding took a step towards Ilene, and stood in front of Sark, his back to the retired spy.

"I thought it was obvious."

"Sorry to interrupt," Sark said loudly, trying to break the falling spell of the room, "but I did fly around the world to come rescue Ilene, and teach this foolish punk a lesson." Yielding shot Sark a look.

"And you think I'm just going to let you go?" he challenged. Sark smirked.

"Well, at first you didn't strike me as the _yielding_ kind, but I'm starting to question that judgment," Sark said.

The glare was joined by Ilene's. _I thought it was funny_. He'd wanted to use that line ever since Yielding popped up.

"All right," Sydney said, interrupting the stare-down. "Sark, we should—"

Something suddenly shot through the window, and a spray of blood splattered on Sark's face as Yielding fell to the floor. Sark just stared at the man. _What the—_

"On the ground, everyone!" he yelled. Something zinged by his head and hit the wall behind him. Then another, and another.

_Crap!_

"Alan!" That was Ilene, who crawled to the MI6 agent. Sark tried not to roll his eyes, realizing something was up and definitely more dangerous than MI6 ever was to him. Yielding bled from his shoulder, and the shock was setting in. _Can't he take a bullet like a man?_

"Sark." He turned to face Sydney. "Who's shooting out there?" She nodded at the window, and Sark studied it from his crouched position on the floor. The glass was still intact except for where the bullets entered. Cracks lined the glass.

"Another assassin," he guessed. "Ilene, are you all right?" He looked to her, and she just nodded. Her eyes were wet with concern as she looked over Yielding. "Here," Sark said, grabbing part of the bed linens. "Cover his wound and hold the cloth in place to stop the bleeding. Whatever you do, stay down."

With that, he crawled out the door, with Sydney in tow.

--------

Crawling did two things. One, it kept them low enough to avoid a bullet from the sniper outside. Two, it afforded Sydney a pleasant view of Sark's . . . feet.

She shook her head and tried to remind herself that life and death were at stake. And just because she was normally a CIA agent didn't grant her immunity from the sleeping MI6 agents around her.

_How much longer will those tranqs last?_

_Not the most pressing matter, Syd. Assassin at large, remember?_ She crawled along.

"So is there a plan now?" Sydney whispered. She swiped at a loose strand of her hair and tried to sweep it into place with her ponytail.

"Not really," he replied. "But it'd help if we knew where he was."

_Gotcha_, Sydney thought. They split up and headed for different windows facing the area the shots came from. Sydney slowly raised her head over the window sill to look out.

It was beyond black. The tree line barely stood out against the sky. Sydney's eyes swept across that tree line and down the back field.

The air was remarkably still, as if nature itself was tense. Sydney let out a breath to defy the tension. She let her mind wander while her eyes focused on the field.

She thought back to what Sark had told her before they left the hostel. He'd given her the "should the worst happen" speech, which she'd heard several times in her life, but never from him. To make things even more odd, he then gave her a slip of paper, and told her to memorize the numbers on it.

_"They're account numbers," he'd said, handing her another slip of paper with names of banks on it. "So my family, and you, are comfortable."_

She shook her head and refocused on the grass below. She still saw nothing and so crawled out of the room and to another vantage point.

She couldn't believe he was so ready to give up. And then it dawned on her.

_He already has a plan in place_. She froze. _Could this sniper be his way out?_ Suddenly she saw him, a figure darting quickly towards the manor. He disappeared inside, out of sight.

_I've got to stop him_. Sydney stood up and ran to find Sark. She checked the next room, but he wasn't there. Each room in the wing was empty, except for where they'd left Ilene and Yielding.

Sydney padded quietly down the hallways, running until she came to a staircase that wound to the main floor. Something crunched and cracked below. _The sniper._He must have stepped on debris.

Sydney swung a leg over the banister and checked her gun. This one wasn't a tranq gun. Despite what Sark thought, she wasn't foolishly humanitarian; she had deadly force to use, if needed.

She slid down the banister, getting to the second floor in seconds. She swung her leg over the banister and crouched by it, just listening.

Breathing. It was tensely ragged. _Like a sniper who has just been running_. Sydney moved down the stairs, leaning back into the supporting wall. A shadow passed below, and she froze. Her gun took aim instantly, but she waited.

Whoever it was disappeared. Sydney didn't move. She couldn't hear anything.

_The kitchen stairs._ Sydney turned back and ran up the stairs. Her footsteps fell loudly, and she slowed her pace. _No sense getting shot_.

It worried her that she didn't know where Sark was. Whether or not this was his plan, it was dangerous. _There are too many contracts out on his life. _No one could be trusted.

A muted footfall sounded from down a hall. Sydney cautiously paced down it, her gun up and ready. The halls were dark, but her eyes blinked frequently to keep her vision fresh.

She heard it again as she came to another staircase. This one was a normal staircase, no winding curves. The sound came from above her. Sydney kept her body low to the ground and darted to the bottom of the stairs, by the railing. Someone moved and Sydney raised her gun to fire.

At the last second, she dropped her arm. _Sark_, she thought with a relieved sigh. He walked past the rooms and the staircase, his gun trained ahead of him. Sydney opened her mouth to whisper at him.

She stopped. From one of the rooms Sark had passed came a shadow. Sydney's eyes widened as she watched the shadow materialize. _The sniper_. He took two steps out of the room and raised his gun, aiming it at the back of Sark's head.

Her arm came up immediately. Her teeth clamped down on her tongue as she shut her mouth. Her eyes zeroed in on the sniper's gun. His finger began to pull back on the trigger.

Sydney fired, two quick shots. Her eyes didn't leave the sniper as he crumpled to the hallway floor, but she noticed Sark from the corner of her eye. He whirled around aiming between the shot he heard and the fallen assassin.

She finally let her arms fall to her side and started up the stairs. Sark approached the sniper, until he stood over the body.

"Nice shot," he said lightly. Sydney noticed his slightly sheepish tone. She watched him.

"Recognize him?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Kind of hard to, when you shoot him in the head," he said. A smirk slowly appeared, and Sydney sighed. She playfully slapped his shoulder.

"Come on," she said. "We have to get Ilene and get out of here." They quickly ran to towards that room. As they did, Sydney wondered if she was right to ever suspect Sark. _So he didn't plan this._

_ But has he planned something else?_

Yielding was completely out, and Ilene looked like she hadn't moved since applying pressure to his wound. Sydney's heart jumped as she noticed her tear-streaked face.

"Julian!" Ilene seemed relieved to see him. "I heard shooting." Sark just nodded.

"We need to get going, Ilene," he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet. She resisted a bit, looking at the fallen agent.

"But—"

"But nothing," Sark interrupted. "Sydney." It was a prompt to leave, but Sydney shot him a look that objected.

"Any idea about what to do with him?" she asked. Sark frowned at her, and then at the unconscious agent. A dark thought crossed her mind, and Sydney cringed at what other possibilities Sark might think up.

Suddenly, he released the light clip in his gun and slammed in a fresh magazine of bullets. He cocked the gun, sliding the first bullet into the chamber and looked down at Yielding.

"I have an idea."


	10. Waking Up

a/n: Thanks to sallene for previewing this!

**Waking Up**

The breeze was light and it tickled his face. Alan rolled toward the breeze, but stopped any movement when he felt the sharp protest from his right shoulder. He winced but bit his tongue.

Alan let his eyes open, slowly as light hit his eyes. He faced a window, through which he could see a lake just beyond some trees and a field. _Where are we?_

"Hold still," he heard, but it wasn't directed at him. Alan raised his head off the bed he lay on. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed bandages over his shoulder. He looked beyond that, and noticed he had no shirt on. And then he saw him.

Sark. The terrorist grunted and winced.

"I'm fine, Syd," he said. They stood inches apart but Sark pulled away. His upper body was bare.

"You have shards of glass in your skin," the American agent said. "Come here." She reached out to him and pulled him back. Alan heard Sark sigh. It was strangely normal, this exchange he watched. _Except that one of them is an enemy to every country on this planet_.

_But he hasn't killed you_.

Alan tried sitting up. His right arm rested on his chest, and he pushed himself up with his left arm. His movement attracted attention.

"The bullet's out now." It was Sark who spoke. Hearing the man speak, right in the same room as Alan . . . The accent was as normal as his own, but the coldness was evident. Sark started towards him, leaving Sydney to watch the men. Alan looked around the room quickly, searching for a makeshift weapon.

"But to be clear," Sark continued, "I'll gladly re-lodge that bullet in your shoulder if I must." His eyes, that icy blue that Alan despised, now warned him in more than just words.

"I'm surprised another one's not lodged in my brain," Alan said. He narrowed his eyes to slits at the terrorist. The two men stared at each other.

And then, suddenly, Sark turned his own stone face to a smirk.

"You're probably wondering where we are," Sark said. He turned away and walked to a closet. Alan didn't dare take his eyes off the man, just waiting for the knife or bullet that Sark threatened. "The lake out there is Loch Sloy. I purchased this cabin several years ago, when I worked for Irina Derevko."

_What?!_ Sark was just talking, quite openly considering what an enigma he was reputed to be. He looked over the clothing in the closet, and that's when Alan noticed the scars. They were long and hadn't even come close to disappearing. Most of them were still pink. There were no scabs, but . . .

_Strachen__.__ Ilene was telling the truth_. Not that he doubted it. But Sark really had been worked over. He picked out a shirt and pulled it over his arms like a jacket. He turned to face Alan as he buttoned the shirt. Identical scars covered the man's chest and arms as well.

He looked away from Sark. "Where's Ilene?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"She's asleep. It's still early." It was the American who spoke. "I'm Sydney." The introduction was awkward at best, but Alan smiled as politely as he could muster.

"Is . . . is she all right?" he asked. Alan didn't dare look at Sark for the answer, but it was he who spoke.

"She's as good as can be after being kidnapped, held against her will, and brainwashed," Sark said, his voice escalating with a thinly controlled anger.

"Brainwashed?!" Alan swiveled his body so his feet touched the ground. He started to stand. Sark quickly moved to him and pushed his chest back so Alan sat down again. The movement was swift and angry, yet Sark looked as composed as ever.

"What was with the whole 'I love you' bit?" Sark demanded. His eyes froze over, and Alan felt that this was the assassin's interrogation mood.

Alan shifted his eyes to stare at the wood floor. He could feel Sark's eyes on him.

"I didn't plan on that happening . . ."

It sounded odd and lame as soon as he said it, and Sark jumped on that.

"Didn't plan on what happening?" Suddenly Sark almost gasped. "Did you touch her!"

"No!" Alan exclaimed, holding his left hand up as if to enforce his innocence. "No, I didn't touch—well, yes, but not—"

Sark's eyes widened as his jaw became stone. Suddenly the man swung at Alan. He ducked, but too late. The right hook caught him on his cheek, and Alan fell back on the bed.

"Sark!" Sydney said. Alan ventured a look between her and Sark. She glared at him, and for some reason that affected Sark. He folded his arms in front of him and stepped back from Alan, which Alan appreciated greatly.

"There are more important questions than your sister," he said, and instantly regretted. It was bold, and Sark shot him a look that said as much. Alan cleared his throat and charged ahead. "You're a murderer and criminal, and not just in my country. You have to pay for what you've done."

Sark rolled his eyes. "Why does this sound familiar?" Alan noticed the sly glance Sark gave Sydney. "Agent Yielding, regardless of your opinion, which doesn't count by the way, you're in no position to enforce any judgment on me." His eyes penetrated Yielding, and it was nerve-wracking. The man was good, Yielding had to admit. _Just as his reputation indicated._

Sydney coughed, drawing a look from Sark.

"Why did you bring me here?" Alan asked. _Hostage?__ Leverage? _MI6 would eat Sark alive if that was the case. "You shoot me, and then . . ." He trailed off and glanced down at his shoulder.

Sark smirked, an expression Alan was beginning to think was permanent. "If it was me who shot you, you'd be dead," Sark said. "I wanted to leave you behind at the manor, but Ilene insisted that you be cared for. We weren't about to do that in the middle of a bunch of slumbering MI6 agents."

Alan tried to process what was said, but it wasn't very clear in his mind. Before he could ask another question, Sark left the room. But Sydney stayed. She studied the floor, and her brown hair fell like a curtain over her face. She brushed it aside, and Alan had to admit she was stunning. Not his type, but stunning just the same.

"Just so you know," she said quietly, "Sark didn't shoot you. It was an assassin, who was aiming for Sark."

_Ah._ Alan could guess what became of that assassin. _Not that it matters_.

"Is that supposed to change things?" he asked stubbornly. Sydney tilted her head to the side.

"I used to be like you," she said. "I used to think there was always a clear answer to right and wrong."

"There is," he said automatically. Sydney smiled at him. It was a smile that mocked wisdom at him.

"No, there's not." She looked away, and seemed lost in her thoughts as she spoke. "If so, you would never kidnap an innocent person to get revenge or do your job. And you wouldn't be okay with loving someone whose brother is a retired 'terrorist.'"

Alan sighed. "Who said I was okay with it?" She smiled at that and headed for the door.

"For her sake, I hope you are."

-------

Sark's teeth were leaving impressions in his tongue, but he didn't focus on that. He tore off the shirt he'd just put on and changed into a t-shirt and sweat pants. He threw on a pair of running shoes and bolted out of the cabin door.

His pace was fast and unsteady. The uneven ground didn't help but it did get him away for awhile. He ran through the tall browning grass, feeling the blades whip by him. His breath created faint white puffs in the morning air. It was getting cooler, each day, and Sark noticed the leaves starting to turn to their orange and reds.

Thoughts started to flood his mind as his energy started to flow out. Yielding was going to be a problem. _Mainly because of Ilene_. He was more than slightly annoyed at his sister. _It's one thing to fall in love, but with an agent?!_

He smirked as he realized that must have been close to what Jack Bristow thought when Sydney told Jack about him. He sighed out loud as his feet padded over the grass and in between large trees.

Sydney was trying to figure out what he planned. She assumed that he wasn't aware, but Sark could feel her analysis constantly sweeping over him.

She wouldn't be happy with him when he left. _At least it won't come as a surprise_. But it was what he had to do. He would miss them all, he knew. He would be alone again, and this time to a degree he never knew before.

He stopped running and looked at the sight before him. Loch Sloy wasn't huge, but it was beautiful. It was partially its isolation. There were no direct roads to the lake, but a good SUV or hike could get you here. Later in the day, Sark expected tourists to start coming.

_All the more reasons to enjoy it now_.

Sark uncovered a tiny boat from an edge of the water, where the vessel waited under leaves and a tarp. He dragged it out and into the water, jumping in as his feet got wet. The oars were in good shape, and he dipped them in the water and started to pull back.

After a few strokes, he was moving steadily to the middle of the loch. He breathed out with every stroke, quickly pulling air back in as he leaned forward for the next movement. His arms started to burn, and he relished it.

The rhythm he found was soothing; the water lapped off the sides of the boat and the sound was comforting. The isolation was comforting as well.

_You'll survive_, he thought. _This is how life could be. Alone, but in solitude._ He pulled harder on the oars. _Time to relax, see the world without the world seeing you, escape . . ._

He was good at escaping. This time it would be permanent. He knew assassins and various organizations would still look for him, but he was all right with that. The worse that could happen was that he'd die, and he was fine with that as well. His family would come to that conclusion long before it actually happened.

He wasn't sure if they would buy the death, but that didn't matter too much. They would know he was gone, and this time longer than the first eight years he disappeared. The trick was Sydney. Based on her comments and objections, she wouldn't make this easy for him.

_Which is why you've kept her out of the loop_.

Sark pulled hard on one oar, and leaned forward with the other, turning the boat. He back-stroked with one oar until he was directed to a different end of the lake. With that, he started his pace again.

Little fish jumped from the water, gaping their mouths to catch flies. _Fishing_, he thought. _I haven't done that in . . . Never_. Although he had used fishing as an alias a couple of times in his life.

He smiled to himself as he realized his plan would work. The life still ahead of him wasn't bleak.

Sark looked around him, and found himself a few meters from shore. He turned the boat again, and then adopted a racing speed. His arms no longer burned but just ached and tingled. The muscles visibly moved as he pulled back with each stroke. His breaths were louder now as he exhaled. He grimaced with the strokes, a part of the process to reach his destination. A groan escaped his lips, but he punished that by biting down on his tongue.

Suddenly he yanked the oars out of the water and dropped them in the boat. He leaned back and just enjoyed the momentum as he and the boat drifted.

"Julian!" The voice echoed across the water to reach him. Sark didn't sit up, but calmly glanced at his sister. She was dressed already, which surprised him. She stood on the shore, watching him. Sark sighed and grabbed the oars again.

His pace was deliberately slow. He jumped out and splashed in a foot of water as he came to shore. Ilene watched as he dragged the boat back under the tarp and leaves.

"Have you spoken to Mom and Dad yet?" he asked. Ilene nodded.

"They're fine," she said. Sark shot her a look.

"I think they were more concerned about you," he said with a touch of condescension.

"They want to know when we're going back. I think Mom's tired of Mr. Bristow."

Sark laughed at that, which drew a bewildered look from Ilene. He waved the look off. "You have to know Jack Bristow," he said, smiling to himself. He glanced over her again. She wore something of Sydney's—jeans, a blue v-neck that brought out her eyes . . .

"You look nice," he said. "Prepping yourself to see Yielding?"

She glared at him. "Very funny."

"What's more funny is that it's true," he said back. Ilene sighed.

"I can't help that I . . . that I—"

"Like him?" Sark filled in. She didn't look at her brother but just nodded to the ground. "Ilene, there are just so many issues with this—"

"I know, but you and Sydney made it work. And he's not a bad guy!"

It was Sark's turn to glare. _Yes, whereas I was evil_. He ignored that part. "Sydney and I have hardly made it work. And this situation is just so much more complicated, admittedly because of me."

"Julian, I don't think he'll turn you in," she said, her eyes wide with hope. He couldn't help but smirk at the naïve assumption.

"Ilene, let me explain the complexity of this all to you," he said, the condescension returning. "I didn't kill him because of you, and because Sydney would hate me. Because you care for him, I didn't leave him there after he was shot. He can't be trusted alone, which is why Sydney's guarding him." He took a breath. "I can't release him because he may call his buddies after me, and because he may come after you again. And to top it off, I do have an undetermined number of assassins after my head." She opened her mouth to object, but Sark pressed on. "And, I still have you, Calvin and our parents to protect."

"So what are you going to do?" she asked. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "You could fake your death for them. That way the assassins will think—"

"Ilene, I've done that before, so many times that it's become the boy-who-cried-wolf syndrome."

Sark rubbed his left arm, trying to loosen up the developing knot in his muscles. He shook his feet, one at a time, trying to rid himself of the excess water.

"So what's the solution?"

Sark smirked at his sister. "I'm working on it." With that, he walked back to the house.

Yielding was a problem, but Sark studied the problem in his mind as he walked. _What's the ideal solution to a problem?_

_ Turn the problem into an asset._ He nodded to himself. Yielding could be an asset, if he could be trusted. And if he really cared for Ilene . . .

Sark was about to determine that. After a quick shower, of course.

The agent was looking out the window. He carefully flexed his right shoulder, probably to test the wound and pain. Yielding stared ahead even though Sark knew he heard him enter.

"How's the shoulder?" Sark asked. He saw Yielding's jaw line stiffen and anticipated the proud reply.

"Why? Feeling sympathetic?"

Sark smirked at the agent's back. "Not in the least." Yielding turned around at that, glaring. Sark just held his smirk.

"What do you want from me?" The man pocketed his good hand, leaning against the wood walls. He was taller than Sark, but just by a few centimeters. His dark hair made him look less trust-worthy, so Sark got to business.

"That depends on what you're willing to give," Sark replied cryptically. Yielding rolled his eyes and sighed.

"I don't believe in bribery," he said with a lift of his chin to the air. Sark laughed at him.

"That's naïve, Agent Yielding, but I'm not asking you to buy your freedom," Sark said. The agent furrowed his brow with obvious confusion.

"Then what are you asking?"

"I'm asking you what your intentions are with my sister," he said with a slight smile. Yielding sighed. "You know my reputation, Yielding, so don't forget that I won't hesitate to kill you if you intend to mistreat her in the slightest manner."

It was Yielding's turn to smirk, which did funny things to the man's nose, but Sark let that go.

"I told her you were ruthless," he said. Sark didn't grace that with an answer.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," Sark said. "Now answer the question. Do you care for my sister, or did you just use her to get to me?"

Yielding began to pace the small room, avoiding Sark's eyes. "Yes, to both questions."

Sark nodded for him to continue, and Yielding took a deep breath. "I kidnapped her to use her against you. But I . . . it's hard not to notice her traits." Sark raised an eyebrow at that. "Her strong will," Yielding quickly went on. "Her fierce determination, and loyalty, mainly to you."

It was Sark's turn to pace.

"I'm not surprised," he said to the agent. "Ilene and I have always been close."

"That was partially why I kept her until last, if what she said was true," Yielding said. Sark cocked his head to the side.

"What did she say?" Sark asked. It was interesting to hear that she made a stand for him. Not that he doubted she would, but that she actually did under the circumstances was commendable.

"Strachen. It must be true, based on your scars," Yielding added with a nod to Sark's chest and arms. "Tell me, did you savor the man's death?"

_He's baiting you_. A shame, really, because Sark was starting to warm up to him. Yet Sark let himself remember pulling the trigger, those quiet shots and the satisfying sound of Strachen dying upon the bullets' impact.

"Yes," he said with a smirk. He stared at the agent, daring him to ask another question to bring out the monster in him. But Yielding just nodded.

"I probably would have too," he said quietly, more to himself, it seemed. Sark suddenly saw into what he was thinking.

"Like the satisfaction you would have felt had you killed me and avenged your friend," Sark said. Yielding's eyes studied the floor but slowly rose to glare at him. Sark reached to the back of his pants and pulled out his gun. "Here's your chance."

He tossed the gun to Yielding, who actually caught it despite his gimp arm. Sark shut the door to the room, cutting off interruptions for the moment.

"Feel free," Sark invited, standing in front of Yielding. The man looked at him warily. Sark just waited.

Slowly Yielding raised the gun. It stayed level at Sark's head for several seconds, and then the agent lowered it.

"I can't," he said. Sark smirked at him.

"Why? Because you fear Sydney will come in here and shoot you, or because of Ilene?" Sark waited for the answer.

"Ilene," Yielding said shortly. "I could care less if your girlfriend shot me in retribution."

Sark watched the man's eyes, but the agent's gaze never wavered. His hands were steady as well as his breathing. Slowly, Sark smiled.

"To be honest," Sark started, "it'd make things simpler if you just shot me." The confused look on his face was perfect, but Sark pushed ahead. "I have a problem, one you've created. I could use your help to solve it."

Yielding took a step back and leaned against the wall again. He nodded for Sark to continue.

"My family's been used as leverage too many times. If they know anything about me, they're in danger—as long as I'm alive," Sark said. Yielding raised an eyebrow.

"As long as you're alive? I can still shoot you, if you want," Yielding said with a slight smile. Sark smirked at that.

"Yes, I'm sure I wouldn't have to twist your arm too hard." He crossed the room, and leaned against a dresser, opposite Yielding. "I have a plan in place, but it would work better if I knew someone was around to watch out for them."

Yielding narrowed his eyes at Sark. "Your family?"

Sark nodded. "How serious are you about Ilene?"

"That depends on her," Yielding said with a glance at the floor.

"Serious enough then," Sark commented.

"If you're asking me to protect them, I have two questions." He waited for Sark to indicate for him to continue. "One, what about Sydney?"

"Sydney has her own life to go back to, and she should return to it."

"Okay. Second question: if you're not protecting them, what will you do? Contemplating suicide?"

Sark didn't answer directly. "Not in the traditional sense," he replied. "But I'll be going away. And they all have to know that it's permanent."

Understanding dawned in Yielding's eyes, and then something else.

_Was that sympathy? Sadness?_ Sark smirked at the man.

"The things we do when we start to feel, Agent Yielding."


	11. Jumping to Conclusions

a/n: Thanks as usual to sallene for previewing this! Just a disclaimer, this chapter was a necessary evil for me to write—hence the delay in posting it. But I have some fun stuff to write ahead. Enjoy!

**Jumping to Conclusions**

Ilene tried not to tuck her hair back or toss it over her shoulders, but it ended up happening every two minutes.

She sighed at her own pathetic nature, and played with her hair again. Her eyes sneaked a glance in the reflection of her spoon.

_Stop being self-conscious!_ She dropped the spoon in a bowl of oatmeal, giving up on eating and vanity. Her hand came up to her forehead, and it felt warm. She sighed again, and went to the fridge for a drink.

Little lay within the fridge, except for ancient orange juice. Ilene settled on a glass of water. Her head was thrown back as she gulped away. But as she swallowed a last gulp, she saw a figure through the bottom of the glass.

She almost dropped it and spit out the water at the same time. Yielding stood before her. His arm looked awkwardly draped in a makeshift sling. He wore one of Julian's shirts, or whoever owned this place.

He made eye contact, but then his gaze kept shifting.

"Good morning," he said finally. Ilene smiled a little too quickly.

"Hi." She looked around the kitchen as a distraction. "Um, have you eaten?" Alan shook his head, which cued Ilene into a frenzy. She searched for another bowl and another packet of oatmeal.

Alan sat at the kitchen's bar, just watching her. Or so she assumed, because it felt like someone was watching her.

Ilene cleared her throat. "How is your shoulder?" _What question is that? How do you think it is?! Idiot!_

"It's okay, thank you," he said. _He's so polite!_ She rolled her eyes to herself. _You're such a girl_.

"Are you . . . how are you doing?" he asked, coughing uncomfortably. Ilene quickly smiled again.

"I'm fine, thanks." The oatmeal was done, and she slid the bowl in front of him. He reached for it with his good arm, and his hand brushed hers. Both of them stared at the contact and then up at each other.

A nervous laugh escaped both their lips. Ilene turned away, busying herself with cleaning up her dishes while she berated herself for being so obvious.

"Did you talk with my brother?" Ilene asked. She was still a little nervous from what would result from that. Julian seemed negative about Alan.

A small smile spread over his lips. "We've spoken. I don't think we'll be shooting each other anytime soon."

Ilene almost sighed her relief aloud. Instead she smiled wide.

It was then that she noticed Alan was staring at her. Not just staring, but watching her, intently. He looked away when she caught him, and gathered the bowl and spoon. Ilene didn't remember him eating the oatmeal, but it was gone from his bowl. _That's because you're been staring at his body!_

He came around the bar and tried to wash the bowl. Ilene quickly intercepted him.

"Here, let me . . ." Her hands touched his again, and the rush that went through her also silenced her. Alan took the bowl from her hands and dropped it in the sink. His fingers rubbed her hands. Slowly, she looked up at him. Those green eyes were like jewels, and vanity pushed her to want them as badly as an emerald.

Suddenly, Alan leaned into her, so quickly that Ilene almost jumped back. His lips were upon hers, pressing hard. She heard his breathing escalate, and then her own as she savored the feel of his lips. She felt his good arm stroke down the side of her body and rest at her waist. He gripped her side and pulled her closer to him.

Ilene let her hands creep up to his face. His skin was prickly, as a shadow crept over his face from shavings long overdue. But it suited him. Ever since she'd met him, Alan had been clean-shaven, the strict, immaculate agent. This rugged side, combined with the vulnerability with his injury, just enhanced everything that was already attractive about him.

She nibbled on his bottom lip and then pressed against his lips again. She felt his tongue push past her lips.

And then she heard someone clear his throat. She broke apart from Alan in record speed, only to find Julian watching them with a less-than-amused look on his face. She heard Alan sigh quietly, and he slowly turned his head towards her brother.

"Sark," he greeted without enthusiasm.

"Making yourself at home?" Julian shot his sister a reproving look, to which she raised her chin. _I'm not a little girl_.

"I thought you approved," Alan said. Ilene glanced at her brother. _Did he really approve? And actually say that to Alan?!_

Julian grinned, but almost in warning. "Approval can always be revoked," he said, flickering a look to Ilene, "especially if you ever hurt her."

"Julian," she said, voicing her own warning. He stared at Alan, who stared back in a standoff. Suddenly her brother smiled.

"We need to leave in an hour," he said. "I suggest you . . . settle whatever you need to." With that, he left, proudly stalking out of the room.

Ilene sighed, raising her hands to her eyes and rubbing her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "He's too protective."

Alan smiled at her, and something within the look told her he realized something she didn't. But the look ended, and she was left out of the loop. "I would have killed him if he wasn't."

They stood there, both wanting to continue the kiss, but neither sure how to resume without extreme awkwardness.

"Would you like to take a walk?" Alan asked out of the blue. Ilene smiled. _How English_, she thought to herself.

--------

Sydney watched from the cabin window as Yielding and Ilene walked towards the lake. Ilene's arm was tucked through Yielding's, and even from here Sydney could see the smiles on their giddy faces.

_I wonder if I ever seemed that way with Sark_. She smiled sadly. _At least she's happy_. But whether or not it would last would depend on the one in the spy world. _Just like it relies on me_.

Although that wasn't entirely true—not when Sark was already plotting some masterful disappearance, much against her wishes.

Her cell phone rang, and Sydney smiled as she answered the call.

"Hey Dad," she greeted.

"Sydney," he said in his usual deadpan voice. "When are you coming back?" His tone started to change from disinterest to despair.

"We're leaving soon. Is everything all right?" she asked, sitting down on the window sill.

"Let's just say I'm ready to let Sark take care of his own," he said. She heard him sigh out in frustration, a rare expression, like any from her dad.

"Dad, they're good people," she said, smiling in between the words.

"While that's true, Sydney, they are also moronic. Are you sure you want to align yourself with such idiocy?"

She smiled, but a frown quickly covered her face. "Well, I may not be."

"What's wrong?"

Sydney sighed and tucked her hair back. "Things are becoming more difficult," she said. She tensed as she waited for an I-told-you-so speech. Instead, though, Jack was silent. She quickly filled the silence. "I mean, I don't know what's going to happen, but I doubt we'll make it work." Just hearing that from her own mouth surprised her, but it was what she thought, and what she and Sark had danced around for the last few months. She didn't want to leave Sark, but he gave her little choice—

"Do you mean I've been babysitting his annoying relations for nothing?"

Sydney sat up straight. "What?" she asked. _Did he really just say that?_

"Sydney, if I'd known your sentiments were waning, I wouldn't have agreed to this infernal duty," he said. She grinned, knowing her father was kidding to a degree. But again, shadows overtook her features.

"I never said they were waning." She stood up again and watched Ilene and Yielding, together. "It's just harder than I ever imagined."

There was silence again, during which she noticed Yielding leaned down to kiss Ilene.

"Sydney," her father began. She quickly moved her gaze to the floor and listened. She sensed the struggle within him to be sensitive enough. "If there's one thing I learned after your mother, it's this: whatever you decide, make sure you will not live life regretting what could have been."

--------

Sark stopped the vehicle by the airstrip. He quickly got out, as did Sydney and Ilene. Yielding took a deep breath.

"Your plane is waiting over there," Sark said, pointing in one direction without even looking through his dark sunglasses. Yielding's eyes glanced in that direction, and sure enough, a small plane waited for him.

"'Your plane?'" Ilene repeated. Alan smiled tightly and nodded. Somehow on their earlier walk together, they avoided talking about the now. She glanced between her brother and him.

"He can't come with us," Sark said.

"But—"

"It's too dangerous," Sydney added. Alan nodded, but thought it was funny that Sydney said that. _Sark__ didn't tell her I'll be coming back._ Gently, he took Ilene by her elbow and led her away from her brother and Sydney.

"Alan," Ilene started to protest, "I –I don't want you to leave." Her eyes were that bright blue, and they seemed mournful at the idea of them parting. Alan touched her face, his fingers gliding over her soft skin.

"I have to go back," he said. "MI6 is looking for me." Suddenly it dawned on her—Alan could see it—a question she should be much more concerned about.

"What are you going to tell them about Julian?" she asked. Alan didn't miss the trace of fear in her voice. He sighed.

"Don't worry. I'm going to close the case on him." He smiled tightly, and she suddenly grinned back. Her arms flew open and she hugged him. It was the first time that she seemed unusually child-like, and Alan couldn't help but find it endearing.

"When will I see you again?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated. _You can't say, 'I'm coming back after your brother disappears.'_ He blinked to rid himself of that thought. It reminded him about the suffering Ilene would endure later. "I'll find you as soon as I get things settled in London." With that, he kissed her, smothering any other protests and saying goodbye.

He walked to the plane, just himself as he left behind the first woman he'd ever cared about, and as he walked forward to leave MI6.

--------

There was a very specific reason Jack left the clip in his magazine nearly empty. There was only one bullet in it. He knew he would need more if there was an attack, but he just didn't think that was likely. He also knew that if there were such an attack, he could threaten and bluff his way with the one bullet he had in his gun.

But the main reason he even took that risk was so he wouldn't shoot Sark's family. One bullet was enough to do damage, he had to admit. But it wasn't enough to massacre all of them—which he relied on as his controlling factor.

Sark's mom, especially, was the main target. As she continued to chatter incessantly, Jack's fingers stroked the butt of the gun. _If only . . ._

He normally liked Vancouver, but this blemishing experience made him want to nuke the entire city.

"Mr. Bristow," came the voice he dreaded, "we really should tidy this place, before my son returns."

_Tidy?!_ The house Jack chose was immaculate already, and why on earth would he tidy for Sark?

"Go right ahead, Barbara," Jack said steadily. His eyes held no warmth, but she smiled heartily and started tidying away.

He dismissed the woman as he changed his view. Jack walked through the house, partially to get away from Barbara, and partially to make his security rounds. He passed a bedroom, where Calvin leapt off his bed and kicked at some imaginary foe. Jack paused, staring at the boy as if he were mad. Calvin kicked out again, and landed on his rear.

Jack didn't laugh, but just groaned as he moved on. He passed the living room, where Henry was watching reruns of Jeopardy. His eyes were glazed over and weren't even focused on the screen. Jack stared at him until he blinked.

"What's wrong, Jack?" the man asked in monotone.

"Are you all right?" Jack asked without really caring.

"I'm fine," Henry said. "I've just been thinking, about what is next." Jack assumed he meant what was going to happen to their family next, what terror or attack to come.

Jack had no desire to get into any in-depth conversation, so he continued his security check. But his thoughts remained on the topic Henry brought up.

What would they do? And how would it affect Sydney? Jack had mixed . . . emotions about what Sydney said. Part of him was elated that Sydney was realizing the hopelessness of her relationship with Sark. But part of him realized how much she would care for him, even if they weren't together.

And that would make her unhappy, if they were apart. He had to praise himself somewhat that he even gave his daughter advice. And even though Sark was low on his list of people he could stand, Jack was willing to put up with it for Sydney's sake.

His cell phone rang, and Jack answered it, expecting Sydney.

"Yes," he said.

"Jack." It was Dixon. "I thought you'd like to know the latest."  
"What?" Jack could feel his forehead tightening with potential concern.

"MI6 has found their missing agent," Dixon said. "And reading between the lines of what else was said, I'd say they're easing up on Sark."

Jack's mouth tightened into a thin line. "Thanks for the update."

At least that would make it easier on Sydney.

--------

Sark sighed some relief as he drove through the city. He was amazed at how dark it was, even for Canada. But the seasons were changing quickly. Fall was becoming a memory.

Sydney sat calmly by his side, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she stared ahead at the road. A glance in the rearview showed Ilene in the same posture. It was excitement for her.

For him, it was uncertainty.

He pulled up to the address Jack had given them. The house was lit up, and he could see movement within. Ilene was out of the car before Sark turned it off.

She ran to the front door, which opened before she made it to the porch. Sark watched as his mother embraced Ilene and squealed with delight. Soon Calvin and his father waited their turns.

Sydney smiled and looked to the ground. _She always does that when she's pleased_. Sark stared at her. She looked tired, but not just from the long flight. Something weighed heavily on her mind.

He circled the car and came up behind her. His hands rested on her shoulders but she didn't jump at all.

"Shall we go inside?" he whispered deep in her ear.

"Yes," she said with a nod. He planted a light kiss on her cheek, and then walked ahead into the house.

The family was reunited—there was some satisfaction in that. Sark grinned as hugs were exchanged, and mild handshakes in the case of Jack Bristow. The veteran spy looked like he was ready to bolt as soon as he could. Sydney saw him off as he parted for Los Angeles. Meanwhile, his parents and Calvin peppered him and Ilene with questions.

The answers were automatic to him, but passionate to Ilene. He smirked at that. _Well, she does have something—someone—to be passionate about._ His smirk slowly slid of his face. Yielding was good, he decided. He could be trusted. And that was good, relieving even.

Especially since his sister loved him.

Love, or in-love. Whatever the difference was. Just like he didn't know what applied to his situation with Sydney.

_Does 'love' even apply to us at all?_ While his family and Sydney laughed and exchanged stories, Sark sat back. His eyes followed their conversation, but his mind did not.

_Love.__ It doesn't really matter._

Not in the world he lived in. Not in any world he would ever be part of.

He nodded to himself and glanced away from his thoughts and any revelation of them.


	12. Peace and Disturbances

a/n: Please keep in mind that I know where I'm going with this story. Have faith, people—I'm not trying to send you all to the psych ward because of suspense or sadness. Honestly. :o)

**Peace and Disturbances**

He could smell the pancakes. At least, he thought it was pancakes. _Could be waffles._

Sark rolled from the floor and steadied himself on his knees. Sydney and his sister still slept. They, with Calvin, had all crashed on the floor, having talked nearly all night.

Sark glanced at his watch. It was 10 a.m. He quickly got to his feet. _Not that I have anywhere to be_. But it surprised him to sleep in so much. He combed his fingers through his hair, feeling how unkempt it was. His clothes were just as unkempt. With a straight hand, he smoothed out the plain white undershirt and his khakis.

His black button-down shirt hung on a door knob, and Sark retrieved it. He watched Sydney as he buttoned the shirt. She looked very content as she slept. Her hair was a mess as were her clothes, but Sark couldn't but help think that was adorable. He knelt by her, and leaned over her head. He bent his body further, until he kissed her on the forehead.

She didn't stir, and Sark smiled as he watched her a moment later.

His mother was responsible for the pancakes. Sark saw her busily stirring batter and flipping the cakes.

"Can I help?" he asked. His mom looked up from her task and smiled. It was a sweet, proud smile, one that shouted of her happiness. She picked up a finished pancake and tossed it to him.

Sark caught it in the air and started to nibble on it.

"I'm fine with this. Are the others awake yet?" she asked. Sark could practically hear a song in her voice.

"No, though I don't know about Calvin or Dad," he said.

She put down the spatula and turned to the fridge. "Well, your dad's in the shower," she said. She examined the sparse items in the fridge. "And Calvin—"

"Julian!" Calvin suddenly raced into the kitchen. Sark's eyes widened as he saw the exuberance on his brother's face.

"Good morning," he said with a smirk.

"I've been practicing this kick since I got here," Cal said. "Want to see?" Before Sark could nod, Calvin stepped back and readied himself.

He stepped forward with one foot, then jumped off of it. He scissor-kicked in the air, with his other leg reaching the greatest height—

And with his foot swooping down and catching Sark in the face. Sark plopped to the floor, with a quiet groan escaping his lips.

"Calvin!" he heard his mother scold.

"Are you okay?" Calvin asked. He reached for his brother, offering a hand. Sark looked up from the floor at his brother. Several choice phrases came across his mind. He took Cal's hand and got up.

"I think you have that kick perfected," he said. He rubbed the side of his face, wincing a bit at the tenderness. Calvin's eyes were gleaming as he was quite pleased with the compliment.

Sark's mom chuckled at her sons. "Calvin, we don't have any milk or orange juice."  
"I'll get it," Sark offered. "Cal can set the table." He shot his brother a smirk. Table duty was Cal's least favorite thing.

Sark grabbed his jacket, and double checked that his gun was with it. As he headed for the front door, he passed by Sydney and Ilene. Both were still sleeping. Sark smiled, and left the safehouse.

The grocery store wasn't far. Sark was in and out in five minutes. He drove back with the radio on in the car he'd obtained. It was a Jetta. He'd always wanted to try one out, but he was over that now. The pick-up in the car was abominable.

His fingers tapped out a rhythm. Sark couldn't help but smile. Being back was . . . quaint. He loved how happy everyone seemed. _Except for Dad_. Though he seemed content everyone was safe again, something was still bothering him. Sark made a mental note to talk with him.

As he pulled up to the house, he saw Ilene waiting on the front porch. She yawned as she waved a good morning to him. Sark smirked at that.

He got out of the car, the orange juice and milk in hand.

"Good morning, Ilene," he greeted. And then a shot rang out loudly.

It didn't register as a shot, or at least he didn't react as he should have. Sark found himself turning to the source.

A man in a ski mask and dark clothing fired from the open window of his car. He fired again.

The orange juice practically exploded in Sark's hand. The feel of the liquid awakened him, and suddenly he ducked into the Jetta for cover. The driver side window shattered as he ducked. His hand flew to his gun.

Wheels squealed to life, and Sark heard an engine revving close by. Sark ventured a look through the window, and saw the assassin's car hurtling towards him.

His fingers tried to stumble but he wouldn't let them. He quickly twisted the ignition and the car to life. He slammed the gearshift into reverse and pounded the gas pedal to the floor.

The assassin's car only caught the front bumper, but he maneuvered the car for a second pass. Sark quickly shifted to drive, and sped off. From his rearview, he saw the assassin following, getting closer and closer. He also saw Ilene and Sydney, getting smaller and smaller as they ran down the driveway of safehouse.

His heart raced. His hands trembled, a rarity in itself. Sark glanced at the gun, watching it shake in his hand. He glanced next to the rearview again.

The car behind him slammed into the back of his. Sark's body rocketed forward, but he stopped himself from hitting the steering wheel.

Sark floored the gas again, and drew some space between him and his pursuer. The road turned sharply ahead, leading out of the peaceful suburbia. A cliff awaited those who didn't follow the road. Sark suddenly pulled up on the emergency brake and cut the steering wheel hard. He raised the gun, but froze.

The assassin was too close already. Sark's finger tightened on the trigger as his car was slammed.

He heard himself gasp and felt his body hit against his seat. The world spun and then dropped.

The blue eyes widened as the pupils shrunk. The hillside raced towards him, closer and closer. Sark's hand grasped for the handle, and suddenly he spilled from the car.

He wasn't sure if the loud crunching sound was his bones or the Jetta. But both rolled down the hill.

Tumble, tumble, bounce, bounce . . . He might as well have been a rock. And then he hit one.

He groaned as it connected with his chest. He stopped just a bit further down the hill. His chest heaved, though it hurt to do so. He gasped for breath.

The car seemed to as well. Sark could hear it hissing. He heard something running, like water.

_Fuel, or something that could not be good_, he thought mildly. Sark made himself stand. As he did, he realized something was still in his hand. _Gun_. He felt himself smirk at that.

Just as he did, he heard a gun shot.

The car flew in the air as an orange ball of flame. Sark fell back from the heat wave.

_Move!_ He didn't trust his legs just yet, so Sark crawled. The safety of trees lay ahead, and he pulled his body toward it with his gun in one hand.

Once in the thick of the trees, he allowed himself to stand. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the wreckage and beyond. His eyes spotted them, at the top of the hill.

_You have to go, quickly. _He obeyed that voice in his head, and moved on, away from them. The game would be up if they saw him.

He stumbled through the trees, clutching his chest. Ejecting from the car sooner could have prevented the pain. But he had to admit, he was surprised.

_Emilio did a good job_. Not bad for the Portuguese assassin. Sark had instructed him to make it a surprise, to catch him off his guard. _He certainly did that._

He heard a twig snap ahead of him. Sark stopped, his eyes searching. And there he was, leaning against a tree as if he was completely unscathed from the job.

"Emilio," Sark said, relaxing a bit. "Nice work."

"Thank you, Mr. Sark," the assassin-for-hire replied. He wore a light grin on his face. It seemed slightly skittish, but then again, he'd just 'killed' someone. "I hope you weren't hurt."

Sark waved that off. "I'll be fine," he said. "You received the initial funds without any problem?"

Emilio nodded. "Good. The rest has been wired to a different account." Sark slipped a hand into his tattered jacket and pulled out a slip of paper he'd been guarding for days. He passed the paper to Emilio.

"Thank you," Emilio said. He stared at the paper. _Odd_, Sark thought. It wasn't like the man hadn't been paid large sums of money before. _Unless he's hit hard times_. Sark almost laughed that thought out of his mind. He continued to study the man.

Emilio's eyes didn't stare at the paper. Sark could see the man trying to steal a glance at him.

_Why?_ It was sneaky, and completely unnecessary, unless—

Sark quickly whipped the gun to the man's head.

"Who else is paying you?" he demanded. His voice was even, and suddenly Sark found himself no longer shaky. Sark was back, in all his icy glory.

Emilio dropped the slip of paper and held up his hands.

"Mr. Sark, please," he said, almost laughing. "I would never—" Suddenly Emilio hit the gun out of Sark's hand.

Sark almost went after it, but then steeled himself for the charge Emilio made. His weight hit into Sark's chest, worsening the pain he felt there. The two men flew back into the grass.

Sark rolled back and held onto Emilio's shirt. He rolled back until he pushed Emilio's weight off of him. The man rolled on, and Sark quickly regrouped. He got to his feet and ignored the sharp aches in his chest.

Emilio's eyes smiled. Sark berated himself for trusting anyone. _Especially an assassin-for-hire_. _There used to be some honor among thieves . . ._ He shook his head. _Not that I ever followed that._

Emilio charged again. Sark side-stepped him, and swung a fist at the man. It connected with his temple, and Emilio fell against a tree. He was stunned but it wouldn't last.

Sark stepped forward, and exacted the same kick Calvin had tried earlier. The kick barely caught Emilio's jaw, but it kept him dizzy. Sark followed up with an uppercut. Then he turned his body around and slammed an elbow in the man's chest.

Emilio's back slid down the tree trunk. Sark stared at the unconscious man. There was a time no one would dare try to cross Sark. _How things have changed_.

And yet, not changed. Sark sighed, and grabbed the man's head. He banished the reluctance he felt in his shrinking heart, and quickly twisted. The crunch of the man's neck breaking made Sark shut his eyes. He let the body drop, and turned away before reopening them.

It was time to disappear, and quickly. Sydney would be searching soon, and he didn't want to see her.

Not again. Not ever.

His heart ached, but Sark clenched his teeth together and made himself move.

---------

Yielding stared at his reflection in the mirror. The tie definitely wasn't working. He sighed as he pulled it from his neck and tried again.

The events of the last few days ran through his mind as his fingers worked the silk into a suitable knot. His superiors were surprised at his willingness to give up on Sark. Yielding himself was surprised that they agreed with him.

_"If he has gone to all the trouble of rescuing his family, maybe he has changed."_

_ "He certainly doesn't pose the threat he once did."_

It made him realize that MI6 wasn't nearly as interested in Sark as he himself was. _Sean . . ._

His personal vendetta had fueled him to find the ex-spy, and yet now that the vendetta cooled, MI6 could care less about Sark. _They agreed to my plan because I wanted revenge_.

Not that he was alone in his desire. Sean had been well-like and respected by all. But he wasn't the only one to fall in the line of duty. Nor would he be the last. It'd taken—_how many years?_—to learn that.

Alan sighed and yanked the tie away from the mirror again. His eyes focused on the reflection of the material.

He chucked it to the side, stepping on it as he moved for his bags.

Ilene sounded grievous on the phone, and Alan instantly knew that Sark had succeeded. The burden he now carried would be hard, but he had promised Sark that he wouldn't tell Ilene, or any of his family the truth.

He'd also promised to protect them. Which was why he was leaving London.

MI6 seemed reluctant to see him go, but understanding. Yielding's excuse had been one of change, and that was acceptable to them. _Have I changed?_

His eyes moved past his bags to a picture on his wall. It was Sean and him, after they both 'graduated' from agent training. A slight sadness hit his heart, but it wasn't bitterness. He smiled at the photo, as if bidding goodbye.

He was letting go of the pain he'd held for years.

Alan grabbed his bags, and left his flat for Heathrow.


	13. As Time Passes

a/n: Thank you all for your patience with this. I want to thank sallene for reading this and helping me out. Enjoy! I have another chapter ready, and will post it a couple of days after this.

**As Time Passes**

Christmas Day

The streets were light in traffic and crowds. Sark walked through them. His dark brown hair and tanner skin didn't mask his origins, but he spoke as a native, and that was good enough for just about anyone.

Changi International Airport supposedly had excellent security. But Sark got past it after he left Vancouver. It was risky, coming to Singapore. The reputation for its police and security was well-deserved. But it also made it safer for him. _Not too many assassins looking for me here._ For most it'd be a death trap.

It was warm outside. Humid. Sark dressed appropriately in shorts and a t-shirt. Scars on his arms drew a few looks, but Sark brushed them aside. The scars were starting to fade. Sunglasses wrapped around his eyes, more for added disguise than because of the sun. He walked with one hand in a pocket of his shorts; he was just strolling.

He expected Christmas Day to be busier, just like any day, but the people enjoyed the day with family. One walked by him, father, mother, giggling child . . .

Sark averted his eyes from them, and stared ahead. A city river ran by the street, and Sark headed closer to it. Various small pleasure boats peppered the water, and he could hear laughter from each. A glare from the sun hit a ripple of water, blinding Sark for a moment.

He walked on, blinking to clear his vision. The sun was out in full force right now, and Sark felt a trickle of sweat slide down the side of his torso. Heat was constant here. After a few months of it, he was getting tired.

_Maybe it's time to move on_. He'd stayed in Singapore long enough. _Maybe too long_. He stayed low and to a degree, enjoyed himself, almost as if Singapore was a vacation. But boredom set in now.

Part of him wanted to check up on things in the intelligence world. He wanted to see if any news buzzed about him. But poking his head up to find out would only shift the target on him.

He also wanted to see where his family was and how they were. But that just wasn't an option. _I'd rather not know, just in case . . ._ In reality, he didn't want to tempt himself with doubt and longing to go back to them.

It was the same for Sydney. Though if he looked in on her, she would sense it. _She knows anyway. You told her, remember?_ It didn't matter, though. She hadn't found him, and though it pained him, he took it as another good sign.

Sark glanced over his shoulder and raised his arm at a passing taxi. The vehicle slowed to a stop, and Sark got in.

As the taxi moved to his destination, Sark looked back at the river, one last time.

--------

The bagel was so hard. Sydney grimaced at the offending bread, and tossed it in a waste basket.

She swiveled her chair back to the computer screen, and punched the letters on her keyboard. This post-mission report was boring, just as the mission had been.

Maybe not too boring . . . It was difficult, dangerous. The CIA sent her to Hong Kong, on this "emergency mission." She sighed.

"Sydney." It was Dixon. His stern jaw and kind eyes demanded opposite reactions of fear and friendship, but Sydney just smiled sweetly at him. "I just wanted to thank you."

Sydney blinked. "For what?" She leaned back from the computer.

"I know things have been hard for you. Since the . . . Sark thing. But you still helped us out, in Hong Kong." Dixon paused, studying his shoes for a moment before continuing. "You're an invaluable asset. Which is why I wanted to give you a heads up on a situation that may need your help."

Sydney almost groaned.

"We're getting intel on a new terrorist organization," Dixon said. "Once we get enough firm data, we'll send you and a team in." He smiled tightly. "If you're up to it."

Sydney flashed him a fake smile. _If you're up to it_. She almost snorted. While Dixon was trying to be sensitive, it almost seemed like a challenging jab. Dixon left, returning to his office. Sydney swiveled back to her computer.

She blinked a few times, trying to resume her train of thought. Her fingers typed away, but as she stared at the screen, it wasn't making sense.

Not the words—but what she was doing. She sighed and pushed herself away from the computer again. She used both of her hands to simultaneously tuck her hair back behind her ears.

_Why?_ The past few months were . . . difficult beyond words. After Sark disappeared, she stayed with his family. Or, rather, she helped them move and be safe. The accounts Sark gave Sydney access to held plenty to relocate them. But relocating them, setting them up in a Drayton, Alberta . . . That was easy. Getting them to live again was hard. And it took its toll on Sydney as she watched it.

She was so angry at him. He knew it would hurt all of them, and yet he did it! No matter what his noble intentions in protecting them, Sydney was sure the decision was selfish.

_No, it wasn't_. But that didn't make it a good decision either.

She'd been back at CIA whenever they "needed" her, and now she was basically always in Los Angeles. It made sense, since she lived here, and since Alan Yielding was practically living with Sark's family. But Sydney found Canada to be home, with them. A part of her could never leave them.

Just as a part of her could never leave Sark.

She sat back, staring at the computer screen without seeing. _What are you waiting for anymore?_

Slowly, she leaned forward to the bottom drawer of her desk. She opened it, and stared at the paper within before touching it. Her eyes scanned over the document, which she printed three weeks ago.

Her fingers felt numb, but she picked up her pen and crossed out the date, correcting it. _January 29th_. The pen moved to the bottom of the page, and she signed there.

The numbness seemed to spread to her legs as she made her way to Dixon's office.

"Sydney," he greeted. She didn't even glance away as she laid the document on his desk. He immediately went to read it, but Sydney didn't wait. She turned and walked away, turning back only to say one thing over her shoulder.

"Goodbye, Dixon."

Inside, she felt shaky and unsure. But she knew that if Sark could see her, wherever he was, he'd be cheering her.

--------

He only returned to London for money—just to take care of some administrative-type things with an account. But it was stupid, he realized.

London was flush with people who wanted Sark dead. That was made very clear to him by two ambitious hitmen.

Well, one was a hit-woman. A couple, so to speak. They cornered him as Sark was just getting some Chinese food after visiting the bank.

Sark overturned the table he was at, and ducked behind it as gunfire rang out. The couple used automatic machine guns, and Sark found himself nicked by a few bullets.

Suddenly, he kicked the table away from him and into the couple. He got to his feet as he pulled out his gun, all in one fluid motion. His shots sounded steadily.

The hitman was down, but the woman was more ambitious—maybe because Sark had just killed her lover, or something.

Sark covered himself with some shots as he ran out the back door. London's populous screamed as the skirmish continued. In the distance, Sark heard sirens, and that made him swear under his breath.

_So much for relying on disguises_. He'd have to do something about this red hair when he had time to catch his breath.

"Sark!" The female assassin screamed after him. _What, should I turn around and wait for the bullet?_ He smirked at the woman's silliness.

His feet hit the pavement hard as he ran. The woman was left behind, or so he hoped. He wasn't about to turn around and see how close she was.

_Just escape, disappear, and don't return._

He turned a corner and almost ran into a car. Of all things, it was a police car. It screeched as Sark's body came within inches of it. He could see the bewildered policeman inside, blinking with wide eyes at the close encounter.

Sark took off again.

"Hey!" the articulate policeman yelled. Other sirens closed in, and Sark almost ran into another official vehicle. But he didn't stop or avoid it. Sark clenched his jaw and ran full speed at the vehicle. He jumped on the hood and ran over the car.

"Hold it right there!"

Did they really expect him to stop? The smirk was back.

One of them fired, and suddenly it was a trigger-happy party. Sark couldn't help but duck as he ran, hearing bullets whiz by and hit objects around him.

He didn't stop running until he was certain he lost them. He boarded a tourist bus, on its way to the airport. _Perfect._

Too bad it was Heathrow. Sark preferred smaller, quieter airports, but beggars can't be choosers.

Sark bought a first-class ticket to the United States, and only breathed his sigh of relief when the plane's landing gear was stowed.

--------

Ilene sounded cheerful whenever she spoke of Alan, but Sydney could still hear the strain of sadness.

"He makes me happy, Sydney," she said. "And I think he really cares for me." Sydney rolled her eyes at that.

"I think that's an understatement," she said. "He's crazy about you. I could tell that the first time I saw him stare at you."

Ilene giggled on the other end of the phone. "Well, I mean, he's given up so much already to be with me. It's sweet."

Sweet. That too was an understatement. _When a man you love gives up his life just to be with you, that's not just sweet._

It was heart-wrenchingly touching. Soul-touching. It made you feel like the world didn't matter, that you could conquer anything.

_And yet . . ._

She stopped herself there as her phone beeped. Sydney pulled I back and saw her father calling in.

"Hey, Ilene, I have to go."

"We'll see you soon, right?" Ilene said. Sydney smiled into the phone.

"Of course." She hit a button. "Dad."

"Sydney," he said quickly. "Sark just popped up in London."

She jumped to her feet and began pacing in her apartment.

"He's in London!" Her heart sped up. _He's still alive. And just a plane ride away . . ._

"No," Jack said. Sydney's heart sank back to earth-level. "He evaded a hit in London. I'm in the middle of checking the airports' security surveillance."

"He probably left the country quickly," Sydney thought aloud, connecting with her father's train of thought.

"I just wanted you to know," Jack said. "I'll let you know as soon as I find out where he went."

He hung up almost immediately, and Sydney marveled at how confident he was in finding Sark.

But her father had the resources. He still was with the CIA, and Sydney couldn't deny the benefits of having someone in the intelligence world.

Her father wasn't surprised when she resigned from the CIA. He questioned her judgment, of course, but he supported her when it was clear that she had made up her mind.

_It only took me . . . how long to decide it?_ She shook her head to herself. Inside, she knew she should have left months ago. _While I still had __Sark__ . . ._

She shook her remorse aside. _He evaded a hit squad_. People were still after him. He was right—it wouldn't end just because he wanted to leave that life behind.

_But he's alive!_ All this time of not knowing, all the stress that placed on her was suddenly lifted.

And replaced by fear. She wasn't the only one who would notice Sark was alive. After months of dead-silence, the intelligence world would get another wakeup call that Sark lived.

Dread filled Sydney's heart. The hits on his life would renew.

_Please be safe_, she willed out to the void, hoping to connect with him. _Please . . . stay alive, for me._

--------

Jack moved on to the next surveillance footage. Sark entered Heathrow, less than an hour after the attempted hit on his life. Jack lost him after he entered, but he knew Sark had to have bought a ticket or checked in somewhere.

And he did. British Airways. A ticket agent processed Sark's ticket. Jack zoomed in on the footage, trying to see the ticket as it was passed to Sark.

_Too blurry._ Jack pulled back, and tried the agent's computer. The agent's shoulder blocked most of the screen, but Jack could still see something. He zoomed in again.

_There. _The passenger name read . . . William Something. _What is it?_ Jack tried to filter the noise out. The last name cleared a bit, but . . ._Patricks__. William Patricks._

_Now where did you go, Mr. Patricks?_ The last name fit, what with Sark's red hair. _Not the best color, Sark_.

Jack slowly went through the footage, looking for any hole to the screen. _There._ The agent leaned over to get a printout of the ticket. Jack froze the screen and zoomed in.

_Miami__. _He picked up the phone.

"Weiss," he said. "Pull the passenger manifests for all flights departing Miami within the last 24 hours."

"Sure," Weiss answered. "Who am I looking for?"

"William Patricks."

He had to find where Sark went. Not for the CIA, not for giving the man his own piece of mind, but for Sydney.

She deserved better, better than Sark, the self-sacrificing ex-terrorist. She deserved the man she loved within Sark.

And Jack was willing to do anything now to make sure she was happy for good.

--------

Ilene smiled at Alan's joke as they left the movie theater. It was forced, but he didn't take offence.

"Hey, why don't we get something to eat?" he suggested. Ilene nodded. As they walked through the streets, she stared at the concrete ground. A few times she glanced at Alan.

His face was tense. She knew it was because of how she was acting. She sighed quietly to herself.

She wondered where Julian was now. He didn't die that day in British Columbia; he wasn't clumsy enough for that. And she knew he probably meant to go . . . _to keep us safe._ That was her theory, anyway. He'd done it before; he could do it again. _At least his motivations changed_.

She was pretty sure it was planned. Her parents never spoke of it; it was just assumed that Julian was gone, in some way or another. Calvin and Ilene spoke of it once. They debated for hours if Julian was dead or just gone.

Alan sighed all of a sudden. Ilene shot him another glance, and her heart sank. This wasn't fair to him, she knew. Their relationship had dwindled, at least to her. Even though his presence made her live after Julian's disappearance, that had waned now. She couldn't help but wonder where he was.

It wasn't just for her sake, but Sydney's as well. Sydney had become the perfect friend, almost a sister to her. Though she stayed in Los Angeles now, Sydney and Ilene still spoke often. And the tone was always the same.

Sydney missed Julian. It frustrated Ilene, because she knew Sydney at least had a heads-up in his vanishing act. But that meant that she might know how to find him. Ilene had asked Sydney that once, but Sydney said she was just as surprised when that assassin tried to kill him.

And that led Ilene back to square one in her theories.

Alan suddenly stopped walking. Ilene stopped and let her eyes study him with some concern. Before she could ask what was wrong, he started speaking.

"Ilene, there's something you should know."

_Oh no,_ she thought. _Here it comes_. He was going to bring up their relationship. She couldn't seem too surprised. She could sense his frustration about it—to him, Julian was getting in the way, even after being gone.

"I know you still miss him," Alan began. _I was right_, Ilene thought. "And I don't blame you. But there's something you should know."

Ilene's eyebrows scrunched together as she waited.

"What?"

"Sark staged that attack in Vancouver," Alan said. A huge sigh left his lips, as if this information weighed heavily on him. Ilene raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I know that." _Does he think I'm stupid?_

"You do?" Alan, on the other hand, looked stupid. "You knew we were planning it?"

_We?!_ Ilene's eyes flashed as she felt a surge of anger go through her.

"We?" she said aloud. Alan started to nod, and then froze. "You _both_ were planning it?"

"I was just helping—I was still in London at the time, remember?" Alan said. His tone became defensive. Ilene advanced on him.

"Yes, I remember," she spat out. "I knew, once it happened, that Julian probably planned it. We both know he's too good to get killed." She swallowed quickly. "What I didn't know was that you helped him!"

Her face was close to his, challenging him to deny it. Her heart raced with anger and she could feel her muscles tighten in her arms.

"Well, I didn't . . . execute the plan or anything. I just knew what he was planning," Alan said. Ilene's eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to rail on him. "Wait, wait—before you kill me, please." He paused and Ilene gave him a moment to spill whatever other secrets he had. "Sark asked me. He asked me to look after you, and your family."

Ilene rolled her eyes, but it was a mask for a stab at her heart. _Is that the only reason he came back?_

"Well, consider your mission fulfilled then," she hissed at him. Ilene spun around on one foot to run from him, but he caught her arm.

"Please, Ilene, let me make it up to you," he said. _How typical is that?_ She rolled her eyes for him to see. "Please, if I knew where he was now, I'd tell you. Anything, please!"

She glared at him and shrugged off his grip on her arm.

"Don't bother." With that, she ran from him. She heard him yell after her, but Ilene didn't want to hear any more excuses.

_How could he? How could they both do this?_ Anger spurned her speed. She didn't want to be mad at her brother, but he lied to her! As did Alan, which infuriated her to no end. Here she was, feeling slightly bad for not paying attention to him, and then he confesses he lied!

_Men_. Regardless of her relationship to them, they all were just liars.

She stopped running when she hit a string of shops by the theater. Ilene sighed and allowed herself to browse, if only to distract herself from the betrayal she felt. She passed a lingerie shop. It was the last thing on her mind, but a red sale sign tempted her in.

The shop offered various scents of body lotions and sprays in addition to spicy attire. Ilene picked up a bottle and sniffed at the lid.

"I thought I might find you here," she heard from behind her. Ilene's breath stopped as she turned.

Alan had a sad but sly grin, no doubt because of the memories such a store held to them.

"How did you know?" she asked dryly. Alan glanced to the side as he shrugged.

"Just a hunch." He stared into her eyes, but Ilene looked away. _I won't be won over by those green eyes again_, she thought resolutely. "Ilene, please look at me." The plea in his voice almost worked.

Suddenly she snapped her eyes up to him with a look of impatience and indifference.

"What?"

"I . . ." His voice faltered, and she saw him swallow. "I didn't know what to do." He paused, but seeing that Ilene didn't say anything, he went on. "When we were at that cabin in Scotland, Sark told me he had to leave. That was when I first realized how serious he was about protecting all of you. After he let me go, I went to London, and resigned from MI6 and then came to you. But it wasn't just some newfound loyalty to your brother that made me do it all."

Ilene tried not to show any effect from his words. She masked her emotions and the look threatening to tear at her eyes.

"What was it?"

She could almost see the relief in those green eyes as she voiced the question. To him it must have meant he had a chance, to explain.

"It was you," he said softly. "I wanted to be with you. I wanted to protect you, which is why till now I've honored Sark's plan."

Ilene finally tore her eyes away from him. She picked a tester bottle of lotion and put some on as she thought about what he said. The silence was thick; Alan didn't say anymore, but it pressured Ilene.

"You said that was all that you wanted. What about now though?" In her heart, she knew she didn't want to lose him. He meant too much to her. Julian had been her anchor in the past. But Alan was her future.

"That depends on what you want," Alan said softly. His eyes matched his tone. "What _do_ you want?"

Ilene looked up at him as a small smile spread over her lips.

"You."


	14. Solitude

**Solitude**

Scagway, Alaska was hardly an upbeat town. Just coming out of winter didn't help the town's pace. Few tourists began visiting the state this early in the spring. The land still held a decent amount of snow, mainly in the mountains. It rained lately, which was a nice change from all the snow.

He hadn't settled down since Singapore. After the scare in London, Sark hopped around quickly and laid low. He even stayed in Wyoming for awhile, as a low-profile role in nightly performances for a chuckwagon dinner show. The tourists really started to get on his nerves, with large family reunions and old people in group tours. So he moved on, when he felt safe.

The next stop, and a more permanent one, was Scagway. The climate was a stark contrast to Singapore. Sark hadn't worn a long-sleeved shirt the whole time he was in the Asian country. But the change was welcomed.

Snow suits seemed like they could be the norm in Scagway. For that reason, Sark was glad spring was coming. He couldn't lower himself as low to look so . . . ridiculous.

He'd been indoors too much. It was partially the snow's fault, but Sark knew it was time to get out.

He examined his appearance in the mirror. His black hair was growing out, leaving light roots. He didn't care. Sark gathered a backpack with supplies, a warm weather-resistant coat, and sunglasses. He stopped by the general store and picked up some new rope.

"Thanks, Jerry," he said as he tossed the man a $20. The man just nodded at him. That's all the man seemed to do; Sark had yet to hear the man utter a word. He smirked as he left the store.

The mountain ahead had tempted him for awhile. It was large, but not any Mount Everest. It was covered with pine-needled trees, rocks, and mud. Judging by its appearance, the first hour or two would be simply dodging trees. Once he got above those, though, the real challenge would begin. He started up it with little concern, for now.

His chest didn't move much as he weaved through the trees. The exertion was hardly extensive. For Sark, it was a leisurely walk.

"Leisurely," he said aloud to himself, for some reason. _Who cares? I'm alone out here_.

Pine needles scraped his skin as he hiked through the trees. His boots lightly squished in the wet soil, and his jacket rustled as he swung his arms at his sides. For awhile, he just listened to the noise he made. Squish, rustle, squish squish.

Then thoughts started flooding his mind. He reflected on the last few months. They'd been quiet, relatively when he excluded the London stop. Singapore, Wyoming, and a half dozen other small stops were relaxing.

Well, when he wasn't looking over his shoulder.

But his hiding had its moments. He was able to do things he never imagined he could—not when working for Irina Derevko, or in any part of the world that involved espionage or terrorism. There just was no peace when you were planning a theft or assassination, or when you knew that at any moment you could get a call for such a job.

So perhaps this was true freedom. He didn't even have to worry about protecting those his life had endangered. Sure, he wished he could be with them, but this being away was perfect given the objectives. At least that's what he told himself.

He shook his head as a branch swept past his head. _Moving on._

Wyoming had been quite funny. _Try humiliating. _In the midst of cowboy- and tourist-central, he took a brief job as the role of an Indian for the chuck wagon dinner. Not that he needed money, but it provided a cover for him beyond dyed hair. Every night, twice a night, he came out with black and white paint on his face and a large coonskin hat on his head. He saddled up and rode a horse around the "dinner wagons" and yelled at the fascinated tourist groups. He even fired blank bullets. _Yipee indeed._ Two things were annoying about the job. One, those tourists. Of course, they had to bring cameras, and of course they wanted a picture with the Indian. So Sark was huddled about with old people, children, and Japanese groups. That started to worry him; photos could always prove dangerous to him, even in his Indian disguise. And with more people being foreigners . . . well, you just never knew.

What was he thinking before? _Oh—leaving __Wyoming_. Sure, it was a nice country state, low-key enough for his liking and all. But those damn horses were just not friendly to one's body. Sark's thighs ached after sitting for hours at a time. He knew before how to ride a horse—a random idea of Irina's—but that didn't make the experience more comfortable. His rear even ached, and frankly, that just wasn't dignified pain.

So Scagway. He couldn't get any more remote without being alone on an island. He breathed in deeply that mountain air, wet with the lingering scent of rain. Suddenly, he stopped, and looked down from where he'd come.

_Not bad_. He checked his watch. _Good time too._ The tops of the trees were below him, and a smirk graced his face in pride. The path he'd taken was almost directly vertical. He let out a long breath and watched his breath hang in the air.

With that, he turned up to the rest of the mountain above. No longer were trees in his way. Instead rocky mud cliffs challenged him. And above that was just rock and snow. The weather was nice; the clouds above were non-threatening. It seemed like the day would be a good one indeed.

Sark stepped forward resolutely and then charged. With his momentum, he ran to the rocks and clawed for holds. His feet sought out places to jump from, and he acted much like a spider as he crept and leapt up the rocky mud.

Again, he found himself slipping into an easy pace and then started thinking.

Scagway was the epitome of loneliness. Sure, it's what he wanted. And he wasn't completely alone; tourist season was about to pick up, with helicopter rides to glaciers and train rides from the docks where cruise-liners brought the people in. Then there were the residents, who really only worked during tourist season. Many even moved away to other parts of the state or country during the winter months.

The people who remained . . . well, in his mind, they were less than mentally stable. They braved the harsh winters, alone with their food storage and solitary hunting. Most stayed alone the whole winter, and Sark wondered what they did.

"Probably started talking to themselves," he said. He smirked at himself as he realized that irony. He leapt again over the point of a boulder and onto the next.

He'd found himself in much the same situation now as those brave loners. He'd only been in Scagway for a month, but it was enough. He sat in the cabin he rented. He read books. He stared out the window. He imagined foes finding him. He longed for a human presence.

And the closest he got to that this early in the season was Jerry, the general store owner.

He sighed and stopped his hiking. He'd finished the rocks and mud. Another smirk covered his face as he looked back down at his accomplishment.

The smirk disappeared as he looked at the next phase. Sark pulled off his backpack, digging through it to find a bottle of water and an apple. He consumed both, slowly.

He removed a harness. He wasn't sure how much he'd need it, but he put it on anyway. The rope came next and he started to secure it to the harness. His blue eyes ventured a glance above him.

The rocks were jagged and straight above him. The snow started not far above, and that would prove to be difficult. _But that's how I want it._ Sark took out some fasteners and clipped them to his harness. He pulled out spikes as well and tucked them in various pockets easily in his reach. The last touch was some gloves to protect his hands.

Sark let out a breath, loudly. His feet inched their way closer to the rock face, and then he started to climb. He made it up about ten feet before he got stuck. And that's when he took out the first spike and fastener.

He quickly found a rhythm as he climbed. Pound the spike, clip the fastener and rope, reach for the next spot. Pound the next spike, fasten rope to it, and remove the last fastener. Sure, they were different steps, but it became a little song in his head.

_Pound, clip, reach. Pound, clip, remove. _

_ Pound, clip, reach. Pound, clip, remove._

_ One, two, three. One, two, three._

_ 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. _

He hummed it to himself over and over again, never looking down or deviating from his rhythm.

_One, two, three. One, two, three._

_ 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3._

_ 1 2 3, 1 2 3._

_ 1 2 3, 1 2 3. 123123123._

_ Rhythm, rhythm—_

"—rhythm. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm."

Suddenly, Sark paused his ascent.

_I think the altitude's getting to me_.

He settled on just humming some little song he heard on the radio. Listening to the radio was something he never did, not since he became Sark. The only times it interested him was when he was avoiding capture from authorities or looking for confirmation of some job he'd ordered or completed. But when he stuck himself in a dank cabin in Alaska, he decided to cut himself some slack. Hence, the radio, and now this annoying tune in his head.

_Wow, you're really on a lot of tangents today_. He scowled at himself, and just kept climbing.

There were a couple of helicopters in the distance, the rotors whirling up to speed. It was a little early for flights out to the glaciers. Tourists weren't out in full force yet to warrant many rides, but someone must have chartered the helos. Sark could hear them chopping up the air in the middle of Scagway. Sooner or later he planned on flying out to a glacier. From what he'd learned, you could go out and walk on the ice, exploring it or whatever. It sounded neat, and he had time.

Time.

Rhythm.

_Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm._

_There I go again._ He shook his head for a moment, and hung from the anchors he'd made in the rocks.

That's when he realized his fingers were numb. They were bright red from the cold and scrapes. He didn't linger on that, but looked up to see his progress. The snow was just above him.

It was precarious at first, but the snow stabilized as he ventured on it. Pretty soon, the rocks couldn't be reached and they really didn't need to be either. Instead of rock faces, he now faced icy ones.

_Cool._

It amazed him that mountains were like this. The layers of growth on them, or just layers in general, were diverse and sometimes repetitive. As he kept looking up, he saw more trees, surrounded by snow. Sark furrowed his brow and glanced back at how he'd come up. His path was less straight now, and Sark found himself off to the side of his original path. The trees were just higher growth from another side of the mountain. He shrugged, and pulled himself to his feet.

He sunk to his calves in the snow. It wasn't terribly deep yet, and he continued forward towards a peak of the mountain that caught his eye. His hands were starting to shake, which meant the elements were starting to get to him. He ignored it and moved ahead, the snow crunching around him.

Soon the snow was up to his thighs. He stopped, or perhaps froze was a better term for it. Sark's lungs expanded quickly, the thinning air obviously taking its toll.

And then he heard it. Those helicopters again. Sark looked around the mountain, down towards the town. There it was, just one helo. But instead of a random tour towards the glaciers, Sark found the helo coming towards his mountain. He frowned at that.

_Maybe it's going elsewhere still._ But it kept coming towards his mountain. It disappeared as it went around the side he hadn't ventured on, but Sark could still hear the rapidly whipping blades.

Suddenly snow and wind slapped his face. He squinted, looking up at the helo. It hovered up and ahead of him, but it wasn't moving away.

Dread filled his body. _How could anyone find me here?_ He moved to get up quickly and start running, but exhaustion was starting to set in. The cold and high snow didn't help.

He glanced back at the helo, sure to see a sniper rifle. Instead he saw a figure, poised to drop out of the helicopter. Sark's eyes widened. _They want me alive_. He'd been there and done that before, and wasn't about to repeat the experience. Sark tried to move again, succeeding this time in inches.

He couldn't help but glance back again, and just in time saw the figure leap out of the helo, ski posts in hand and skis on both feet. His eyes followed the insane skier, who actually landed on the snow and started towards him.

The steep incline of the mountain made his time very short. Sark quickly took action and trudged towards the trees. The snow was getting less deep, but still his speed was slow. The skier was not far behind. As he looked back, he saw him approach too closely.

And then he slammed into Sark, sending both of them flying backwards and tumbling in the snow down towards the dangerous rocks Sark had so careful climbed earlier.


	15. Falling and Crawling

**Falling and Crawling**

The man's momentum crashing into him made Sark's breath evaporate. They both slid in the snow, closer and closer to Sark's path of ascent.

Finally they came to a stop. Sark quickly scrambled to his feet, trying to gain some sort of balance in the snow and dizziness in his mind. As his eyes refocused, he saw the skier was up on his feet as well. Sark didn't hesitate.

He launched forward an attack, leaping forward on one foot and kicking at the skier with his other foot. He struck the man in the stomach, but the impact threw off Sark's balance too. Both fell to the snow.

Sark was on his feet again quickly, and up for Round 2. He swung at the skier, who caught his fist mid-air and pushed Sark back. He stumbled but stayed up. He swung again, low this time and catching the man in the side. The skier groaned, but as Sark's follow-up came, he dodged the blow and landed his own squarely in Sark's chest.

Sark fell back again. His body slid back.

_The edge!_ He was close, he knew. He clawed at the snow, trying to catch any rock underneath him. His body slowed, and he started to breath as he stopped just short of the rocky face he'd climbed.

His chest pushed out air quickly, but he got up slowly. With an intimidating glare at his opponent, he waited for the skier's next move.

"Sark," the skier said. But the voice wasn't what he expected. A hand came up to pull at the hood on the skier's suit, and as the skier pulled it back, Sark's eyes went wide.

"Sydney?!"

She smiled as she clutched her side.

"Hi."

His mouth was wide open. The words came but couldn't quite make sense as his brain processed them.

"What?" he tried. "How? Sydney, how did you—"

He had taken a step forward, and slipped in the snow. His body hit the mountain a second later, and he gasped as he slipped off the snowy edge.

"Sark!" he heard Sydney yell. But his focus was on the sensation that his heart had fallen out of his body. A sharp yank traveled through his shoulder as his fingers caught some rocks. His gloves and hands were both tattered, but he held on with those fingers. His other arm flailed.

_Grab the rocks, grab the rocks, grab the rocks_—

_Shut up!_

He moved his arm slowly, afraid that any false move would make him lose the slight grip he had. Rocks fell below him, no doubt loosened by his fall and anxious grab for his life. He kicked at the rocks, trying to get a footing there.

"Sark!" Sydney had panic in her voice, something Sark rarely heard. Normally he would have taken some enjoyment out of it, but since his life was on the line, he passed on that.

"Give me a second, please," Sark said as calmly as possible. The toes of his shoes loosened chips of the rocks, but he seemed to be finding some more stability.

_Now, your other arm_. The hold he had with his fingers was slight, but since it seemed to be working, he wasn't about to change it. He searched for another hold.

"Hang on," he heard above him. "I'm coming down."

"No!" His yell startled him, even though he shouted it. "Don't risk it." His eyes never left his predicament.

"Sark, give me your arm."

There was a slight dent in the rocks, a little hole that could work . . . _I can almost grab it_.

"Almost have it," he muttered, still without looking up or down.

"Sark, give me your arm!"

He sighed as his other hand reached that hold. "I said, I almost have it!" He looked up sharply at Sydney, only to realize she wasn't but a few feet from him. She shot him a look with those brown eyes and a raised eyebrow. "Fine," he muttered again.

He reached up to her, his body stretching above him.

Then his right foot slipped, and he started to fall again. The gravity of it made Sark grasp at anything. The rocks tore at his fingers, scraping his knuckles and his palms through the gloves.

His feet hit something, a rock that jutted out from the rest of the peaks. He crumbled and landed on that rock. His body threatened to roll over and on down, but he braced himself with his bloody hands.

Sark started to cough, partially because of the cold and more because he just couldn't breathe.

"Sark!! Stay there!"

"You think?" he muttered again in between coughs. _Okay, just control yourself_. His hands were throbbing. He glanced at them and noticed rivulets trickling over his skin. His legs shook, but aside from a scrap he suspected he had, he was all right.

"Don't move!" Sydney yelled from above. "I'm coming down, all right?"

_Too dangerous_, he thought. "You don't have any ropes, Syd. You need—"

"I do have ropes and gear, Sark. Just hold still and I'll be right down."

Sark opened his eyes and watched as she started to make her way down. She was about fifty feet above him, scaling the rock face with meager fishing line. Well, that's what it looked like to him from his vantage point.

His breathing was starting to mellow out, but he wasn't about to move. For the first time in his life, he felt more than just uneasy. He felt scared that he might fall. _And that'd just be a pathetic way to go. _His thoughts flashed back to Wyoming_. Right above being trampled by your own horse._

"Sydney," he began, trying to distract himself. "Mind the rocks, now." He could hear the frustrated sigh above him.

"You're the one who fell, not me," she said. Sark narrowed his eyes at her.

"Well, forgive me for being caught slightly off-guard when someone leapt out of a helicopter and rammed me to the ground," he said. His voice rose with his sarcasm and temper.

"Well, I wouldn't have had to leap out of the helicopter if you wouldn't _insist_ on faking your death and running away!" He allowed himself to smirk at her own anger. She pushed back from the rocks after unclipping her top anchor.

Sark closed his eyes as a little dizziness made his head buzz. "You couldn't think of just tracking me down in my cabin and waiting there?"

She snorted loudly, and Sark's smirk grew as the sound echoed off the rocks.

"Yeah right," she said. "You wouldn't have waited around. You're probably about to move on or you have your cabin booby-trapped anyway."

"Oh please," he muttered to himself. "It's not like I don't have your best interests at heart."

"Oh, shove that excuse," she shot back. Sark raised an eyebrow at that. "If you really had anyone's interests at heart, other than your own, you would let them decide for themselves!"

Hmm. She had him there, but Sark wasn't about to leave it at that.

"It's not like it's been all pleasant for me," he defended himself. "Do you think I enjoy being in Alaska? Especially this time of year?!"

"Am I supposed to buy your excuses?" It was a rhetorical question, but Sark almost said 'yes.' "You went from London, to Miami and Pennsylvania. None of those places seem like the armpit of the world."

Sark was confused. "How did you know I was in all those places?" From where he lay, he saw her smile. She was getting closer.

"Someone came after you in London, right?" she said. "We tracked you from Heathrow to Miami, and had fun finding 'William Patricks' take a flight to Pittsburgh."

_Okay, it's definitely possible. Passenger manifests and all. _But he was in Alaska, and that whole travel route was in February. It'd been a couple of months since then. "How'd you track me to here?"

"My dad," she said. Sark didn't miss the trace of pride in her voice. "He called in some favors for me at the Agency."

"Hmm," was all he said in reply. His leg suddenly jolted, and Sark swatted at it to stay still. "Took him long enough."

_Not that I wanted to be found anyway. _

He heard her chuckle. "Well, you know as well as I do that the Agency's technology isn't always perfect."

He nodded. _The Agency._ He missed it before, but the way she referenced it . . . His eyes narrowed again, this time in suspicion.

"How is the good ol' CIA these days?" A few rock chips got loose and sprinkled over him. Sydney was just a few feet away, hovering over him.

"Fine, as far as I know," she said. "I resigned in January." With that, she plopped down on her feet at his side. Sark's eyes were wide now. _Resigned._

She had a smile in her eyes. _She knows I'm proud of her for doing that._ Not to mention shocked, but in a good way.

"You resigned," he repeated. She smiled and nodded as she leaned over him.

"Yeah, I did." She stared at him with those smiling eyes and soon Sark felt the smile infect him. "Come on," she said, glancing away to his hands and body. "Let's get off this mountain."

"Yes," Sark said, exhaling as he sat up. "I can show you my un-booby-trapped cabin."

--------

For some odd reason, Sark seemed less than excited to be showing her where he lived now. As he led the way into his cabin, Sydney understood why.

It was tiny. One bedroom was what the little cabin boasted, and it was more like a studio that opened up to the kitchen and living areas. The only truly sealed off area was the bathroom.

Sark hadn't said much on the way down the mountain. He seemed to focus on his hands. She knew it was more of an excuse—they were just scrapes, albeit bad ones. Sark kept up his interest and walked to the kitchen sink. He ran his hands under the water. She saw him wince as the water washed off blood and dirt.

_Maybe he's not faking it_. She looked around the meager cabin. _Where would bandages be?_ Sydney quickly shed her outer coat, tossing it on a chair. Feeling less restrained, she started to look around for supplies.

"I have some ointment and things in the cabinet in the bathroom," Sark said suddenly. Sydney glanced at him. He hadn't turned or anything to know what she was doing. _Well, it makes it easier._

She walked the four steps to the bathroom, which was minuscule and beyond basic. She hadn't ever stayed at places this remote, even in all her years as an agent. She shook her head and retrieved the bandages from a broken cabinet.

He dried his hands on a kitchen towel as she spread out the various bandages, tape, and ointments. Sydney glanced at his hands.

They were ripped up. Nothing serious, but Sydney would have to use a whole box of bandaids on one hand. She chose the bandages instead. She took one hand in hers, and started spreading ointment over the cuts. Sark's eyes were on her, she knew, but she remained focused on her task.

He hadn't asked yet, about his family. It didn't really surprise Sydney. The wall was still up, as always.

Her fingers worked the bandage over his hand, leaving his fingers exposed a bit so he could still function. Some of the scrapes were uncovered, but Sydney wasn't worried.

"Thank you," he said. The tone was suspiciously indifferent. Sydney rolled her eyes.

"You're welcome, you brick wall," she said. She glanced at his face, and saw he almost laughed.

"I've reverted," he said, just traces of a smirk showing. "Sorry."

Silence settled in as she wrapped up his other hand. When she finished, they just stared at each other. Sark broke first, grabbing some ointment in his bandaged hands and turning his attention to a scrape on his leg. The pants were torn, showing the mangled skin and rocks embedded to the side of his knee.

"Why are you here?"

Sydney barely heard it, partially because he spoke into his knee like a hidden microphone.

"I'm here to bring you back," she said. _No sense dancing around it in disguise._ No matter what reason she gave, he would see the truth. Now she braced herself for the rejection.

"I hate to rehash past debates and events, Sydney, so I'll just get to the conclusion: leave me alone." The bitter acceptance in that lonely statement made her heart ache.

"To what?" she started. She could feel heat rising to her cheeks as she spoke. "Leave you to this luxurious estate you have here?" She huffed at her surroundings. "Yeah, this place really puts that cabin in Scotland to shame."

He glared at her, which made Sydney's hopes rise. Getting a rise out of him was what she needed to succeed.

She hoped.

"Sorry, hiding doesn't always allow luxury." He turned away from her. "You're wasting my time, Sydney, and yours. Go, live your life."

She rolled her eyes.

"I would, but part of it is missing."

It was his turn to roll his eyes, and Sydney almost smiled at it.

"Sydney, why waste a perfectly good resignation from the CIA and then go back to a life of looking over your shoulder?"

"Because I love you." She waited for a reaction, but saw only stoniness. He seemed to puff himself up, and gave her his best smirk.

"Well, I don't love you," he said quickly, "so you're wasting your life." With that he turned away.

Sydney sighed, slightly defeated. Not that she believed what he said, but because she now had to resort to plan B.

She quickly started after him, pulling something from her pocket as she did. Her fingers weaved around the thin object, expertly flicking off the cap.

Sark heard her behind him, but didn't turn until she plunged the syringe into his neck. He gasped, watching her with a look of betrayal. Then his eyes glazed over, and he slumped to the floor.

Sydney sighed.

"Serves you right."


	16. Awakenings

a/n: Thanks to amyl27 for her help with this chapter!!

**Awakenings**

His head hurt. So did his neck.

_What happened?_

He moved an arm to rub his neck, but instead felt it held back. He tried again, but heard the rattling of handcuffs.

Sark blinked, several times. He sat in a chair, and as his eyes swept around him, he realized he was indeed in a predicament. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and his feet tied to the legs of the chair. He tried to open his mouth to protest, but realized a clump of cloth gagged him.

Confusion and even fear overrode his body. His muscles tensed. _Calm down. Figure out what's happened._

_Sydney_. He remembered she came, and they were in his cabin. _She was wrapping my hands, and trying to convince me._ He flexed his hands, feeling the bandages still there. He glanced over himself again, and found himself in the same clothes as before. They were dirty from the mountain, sweat soaking through from however long he'd been unconscious.

_Why was I unconscious?_ He tried to think what caused it. _Who else was there?_

He felt his breath tighten in his chest. _Sydney__._ She had knocked him out, injected something into him.

A smirk slowly spread over his lips. Her move was bold, and it confused him. _Now what?_

The room he was in was small—tiny, in fact. It was more like a walk-in closet. Coats and clothing hung around the walls.

_It is a closet! _His eyes narrowed. _She had the gall to put me in a closet_.

Suddenly Sydney appeared through the door.

"Good, you're awake. Sorry about the accommodations, but it's the only place to keep you for awhile," she said. She looked gorgeous, as always. Her hair was soft like silk. She wore a haughty grin on her face, and Sark couldn't help but admire it.

Until he remembered he was chained to a chair.

He had a few choice phrases and questions to ask, but his mouth just chomped on the gag. The words were lost through it. Sydney started to smirk—one that rivaled his own.

"You'll get your chance to talk," she said. "But not yet. I figured interrogations and being held captive always seem to work in bringing out the truth. So welcome to your captivity."

His eyes bulged at that, especially as she just turned and walked away.

_And I'm still in a closet._

But he wasn't left for long. Sydney came back, and this time with Alan Yielding.

_What?_ He would have voiced the question, but—yeah, the gag.

Alan had the audacity to smile at Sark. He didn't return the favor, but not that anyone could tell what expression he bore anyway.

"Good to see you, Sark," Alan said. "For the record, I didn't tell everyone where you were."

_Thanks, moron,_ Sark thought. _I figured that out since I didn't even plan on going to __Alaska__._ None of his moves were planned.

Sydney cleared her throat, which made Sark drop the glare he'd been shooting Alan.

"First off, Alan had something he wanted to ask you. I'll leave you to it." With that, she turned and left again. Sark shook his head. Figuring that woman out was still a mystery.

Alan stood, watching him without a trace of concern at the oddness of the situation.

"Well, anyway," he said, clearing his throat, "what I wanted to ask was … well, it relates to Ilene."

Sark could feel his eyes narrow at the man.

"We've been, ah, dating, for awhile—well, since you've been gone," Yielding continued. The way he stumbled alarmed Sark. It meant he was uncomfortable, and such discomfort at this stage made red lights flash in Sark's mind.

Yielding sighed. "I want to marry her, if she'll have me." Sark's eyes bulged again. _What?! They barely know each other!_ "I figured I should ask you, since your father doesn't scare me at all."

Sark raised an eyebrow at that. _Meaning, he's afraid I'll kill him if he doesn't get permission first. Not a bad idea._

"So what do you think?" Alan asked, a hopeful grin on his face. Sark rolled his eyes. _I'd voice an objection if I could._ But Alan kept smiling, seemingly oblivious to the restraint on Sark's mouth.

"Great," Alan said. "Thanks for your approval." He turned to leave the closet.

_WHAT! _ Sark started to yell through his gag. Alan turned back but just waved, a smile on his face.

And he was alone again.

_They're mocking me. They want control--without me interrupting_. It made him fume.

_The nerve._

Through the closet door, he heard laughter, and it only made him scowl.

Sydney came back, closing the closet door behind her. She had a motherly smile on her face, and she bent down by his side. Her eyes were soft, and Sark's breath caught in his chest.

His eyes didn't move from hers, even when she took a hand and stroked his cheek.

"I need you to trust me on this, all right?" she said quietly. "I know you hate being powerless—but this is the only way." _The only way for what?_

With that she leaned in and gave him a peck on the nose. That almost startled him, in its playfulness and sincerity. He shook his head, and Sydney turned towards the door.

"Alan!"

He returned, and together they started to release Sark. Alan bent by Sark's chair, and undid the chains holding him down. Sark felt Sydney's touch on his arms as she helped him stand. But the handcuffs weren't removed, nor the gag. They led him out of the closet and into a well-lit room.

And there they were. His mom and his dad. Calvin. Ilene. They stood in a semi-circle, watching him with faint smiles as Sydney and Alan helped him along.

His legs were numb, and he stumbled. Alan caught him, but suddenly let him drop.

Sark groaned as he hit the floor. He glared at Alan. The man merely shrugged. Sark looked to Sydney, who seemed equally nonchalant.

_What the hell is going on?_ He stayed on the ground; he couldn't really get up when his hands were still bound behind his back. He lay on his side and glared at the people before him. Whatever game they were playing, he didn't like it.

"Sark," Sydney began. Her hands were clasped in front of her like a veteran game show host. "We decided this would be the best way to get your attention."

"And by attention, we mean getting through your thick skull," Ilene chipped in. A bright smile graced her lips, and Sark had to shake his head to make sure this all wasn't some bizarre dream.

"You keep running away, faking your death and all." It was Calvin who spoke this time. He shot his brother a quirky grin. "I know you were trying to protect us."

His mother put her two cents in. "But honestly, Julian, your notions of protection are just plain silly."

"Misguided," his dad added.

"Stupid," Calvin said.

"And selfish." That one came from Sydney. Sark found his eyes fixated on hers. Those eyes were warm, despite this odd and chilly reception. It comforted Sark somewhat to know they all weren't completely nuts, no matter what assurances Sydney gave.

"I know you are used to protecting everyone by yourself, and making all the sacrifices alone," she said. "But it's time you let someone help. That's partially why I gave up the CIA."

She stepped closer to him, even crouching by his body.

"No matter what the dangers, I'll protect them." She was whispering, just so he could hear. "I'll be by your side. But you have to let me."

Sark blinked, several times as moisture started to threaten him. _What's going on with my eyes?_

He swallowed hard, noticing a growing lump within.

"We want you with us, Julian." It was his dad, and Sark didn't miss the misty look in his eyes.

"And," Ilene interrupted, "if you even think about disappearing again without so much as a 'see-you-later,' we'll all go on the evening news and put out a missing person's report." She smiled, her blue eyes sparkling.

Sydney was still by his side, and she looked back at him. Her eyes caught his, and he knew that she saw something within him, being affected.

Sark looked away. He couldn't show this. _He _wasn't ready.

_I can't do this. I can't._

_ I can't stay, not when their lives are at risk. Not when people still want me dead._

He felt Sydney's hand lift his chin to look at her.

"Let us protect you for once," Sydney whispered. Her eyes were wide with concern, pleading . . . love.

A sob escaped his throat, and for once he was glad the gag was in place to muffle it. He pulled his chin away, trying again to hide.

To his horror, or maybe delight, Sydney removed the gag. Sark managed to swallow that lump as he looked into her brown eyes.

"Anything you'd like to say?" she prompted. He froze, but then nodded.

"Would you please take off these handcuffs?"

His family and Yielding all laughed at that. Sydney obliged. She wore her smile openly, but her eyes still showed concern.

Sark didn't care. He had to leave, to escape this.

It was too much.

As soon as he felt his hands free, he jumped to his feet and quickly left the room. The silence he caused shouted after him.

_Not now. _

_ I can't. _ __

--------

He hated himself. He'd shattered the window to the first car he found and jumpstarted it. Sark quickly sped off.

After several moments of silence, he punched the radio and twisted the volume as high as he could stand.

He needed noise. Distraction. Anything to silence his mind and heart.

_It's for the best._

_ No, it's not. _

_ Stop running away._

The road he followed was unknown to him. He had no idea what city he was in, but it wasn't as sparsely populated as he thought it'd be. He passed shops and stores, gas stations and parks.

He swerved to pull over as he noticed a large pond in the distance. Sark left the car at the curb and started to it.

A strong wind blew through the city, creating large ripples on the water. Sark sat by the pond's edge and just watched the water. The gentle lapping of water calmed him.

They had meant to make him a captive audience. Make him listen to what they had to say, to make him agree to what they wanted.

He didn't blame them—not his family, Alan, or Sydney. The blame only fell on himself.

Yes, they wanted him around. They wanted him in their lives. But Sark would always exist, and he would always be in danger. And he would always endanger them.

But that's not what really bothered him.

Running was a way of life now. And it held freedom that he … liked. He enjoyed the moments of randomness that he experienced. He had seen places he never would have thought he could. But he was still hunted. Even Sydney's sudden appearance proved that.

He hated being hunted. He hated being the object of everyone's power. With Irina, he was the point man who obtained anything. Strachen had used him for information and his own attempt to gain power. How many times had he been tortured for other people's reasons?

MI6 had wanted him as well. Another pawn in a global game of intrigue that Sark now despised.

His family had suffered through all of it.

But so had he. And he was tired of suffering.

He couldn't take anymore. His reasons for running away had always been valid. He had lived--relatively care-free--but even that had been taken away.

Now, the very ones who wanted him around for innocent reasons were the ones Sark couldn't help but resent.

Love. Restraint. Cage.

The only answer for him was escape. He was alone now. Sark couldn't even remember the why of being with Sydney before MI6 came into the picture. Their relationship then hung by a thread. It had been pointless. She was even ready to give up.

_But she resigned. She said she wants to protect them. You._

_ Doesn't that change anything?_

Another sob came through Sark's throat.

_No._

Why? Why any of it anymore….

He felt tears pelt his skin. But even he couldn't reduce himself to that. Looking up, he saw the sky pour down on him. The wind had grown stronger, and the chill of it all made Sark shake.

But he didn't get up. He didn't run to the stolen car for shelter.

He stayed in the rain, unwilling to make the effort to protect himself.

In a word, he was tired.

And ready to give up.

--------

It was cold. Beyond cold. Sark's eyes fluttered open. It was dark, and the rain hadn't stopped.

He tried to move his arms and wipe the rain from his face. His arms might as well have been lead.

His chest moved up and down too quickly, and his eyes started to shut.

_I should stay awake._

---------

"Sir?"

The voice was female, and formal in its reserve.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

Sark wanted her to go away. His head was throbbing and his whole body ached.

"Sir?"

"If I say I can hear you, will you go away?" It came out as a ragged whisper, but the woman must have heard it. She laughed.

"Let me get the doctor."

_Doctor?_ Sark tried to open his eyes. A dark-haired nurse left the room, no doubt to retrieve said doctor.

He glanced around. He was in a hospital room, one with four curtained partitions. Across from him he could see an old woman, and next to him a young woman. Thankfully, there was no fourth occupant.

The old woman eyed him suspiciously. Sark closed his eyes, and tried to think.

_Ow. That hurts_. He opened his eyes again, glancing to his right. The young woman was watching him, a flirtatious gleam in her eyes. She couldn't have been more than 21, but she was beautiful, and seemed quite taken with him.

_Or you could just be delirious._

The dark-haired nurse returned, this time with a female doctor in tow.

"Good, you're awake."

Sark raised an eyebrow at that, though it caused his head to hurt.

"Where am I?"

"More importantly," the doctor said, "is who are you? We didn't find any identification on you. No wallet, nothing."

Sark furrowed his brow. He had no desire to give this woman his name, or even an alias. They would try checking those, and he just couldn't afford that.

"What happened?" he asked. Suddenly he started coughing, and he could hear the rumble of phlegm in his lungs. Sark covered his mouth, but in the process his IV line got ripped from his hand.

The doctor was at his side, quickly trying to put the tube back in.

"You were found outside two days ago," the doctor said. "The police found you by a pond in the park just a few blocks from here. You had a fever at the time."

_Fever? They brought me in for a fever?_

"That, of course, worsened to pneumonia," the doctor continued. "You're lucky they found you."

Sark almost smirked at that. _Lucky they didn't check Interpol's database._

"When may I leave?" Sark asked politely. The doctor shot him a look.

"When you tell me your name, so I can contact someone to take you home," she said sternly. "If there's no one to take care of you, you must stay here until you recover."

Sark almost rolled his eyes. _Like you could keep me here_.

"I can take care of him," someone said, entering the room. Sark looked over to see Sydney standing there, her arms crossed over her chest.

Sark groaned. The nurse raised an eyebrow at that.

"And you are?" the doctor asked.

"His girlfriend," Sydney replied shortly. "Is he okay to be moved?"

The doctor looked between her and Sark, and back at Sydney again. Slowly, she nodded.

"Yes," she said. She led Sydney out of the room. "I just have some paperwork for him."

--------

They drove in silence. Sark hadn't uttered a word, and that was fine with Sydney. She was ready to bite his head off for disappearing, only to show up in a hospital days later.

She swallowed hard. She had been worried—they couldn't find him. He left too quickly, and taking Alan's car even. He hadn't liked that too much, but he'd get over it.

When they couldn't find him, Sydney was terrified. She thought maybe he just needed a moment to collect himself, but when he wasn't to be found her thoughts turned to the worst.

Sydney was sure he was gone again. Or that some lucky assassin had finally found him.

"How did you find me."

The defeat in his voice made Sydney cringe. He acted like a prisoner.

"The car. It was found outside the park. When we went to get it, we overheard a street vendor talking about someone being taken to the hospital, right from the park," she said. In truth, the street vendor had said 'body,' and Sydney knew it had to be Sark. Though she was afraid he was dead, she went to the hospital anyway. "I looked for John Does."

Sark nodded. He stared out the windshield, rarely blinking.

Suddenly he started coughing. The fit lasted several seconds, a good minute even. He fought to control his breathing, and Sydney could hear the wheezing as he breathed.

They pulled up to the house. Sydney watched as Sark studied the house. It was a nice one, half brick and half stone covering two-stories above ground.

"Is this where you moved them?" he asked, referring to his family. Sydney nodded.

"Come on. You should rest."

---------

Ilene watched over her sleeping brother. Julian lay on a bed, in the guest room of her parents' house. The room was a light blue, and the bed was a four-post canopy that she often wished were in her room. She knew how comfortable it was, and could see the relaxation it caused sweep over Julian's features.

When Sydney brought him home from the hospital, he didn't say a word to anyone. He just leaned against Sydney for help up to the room, and then she just let him sleep.

Ilene couldn't help but be hurt. He left, again and so soon. And he almost got himself killed by pneumonia. For as tough as he always tried to be, Ilene had seen him in bed, weak as a feather, more times than he would probably care to admit.

But those were times when he'd been … tortured by someone. This time…it was as if he had given up.

_Why would he?_ Didn't he want to be with them? Was he so stubborn to ignore their own wants, all for their "safety"?

She let a sigh escape from her mouth. She slowly moved a hand to him, and wiped away his hair from his forehead. He was warm; she let her hand linger on his head.

_Fever_. He was still fighting off the illness. Ilene glanced at the bottle of medicine by his bed. Sydney already gave him one pill, and said he shouldn't have another for a few hours.

Ilene sat back and just watched her brother.

"Ilene."  
She turned to the door, but knew who it was before she saw him. Alan came in, and sat next to the bed.

"How is he?" he asked. Ilene knew Sydney already told him everything there was to know, but his asking was out of concern.

"I don't know," she said. "But he'll get better; they wouldn't have released him from the hospital otherwise."

Alan nodded. "He was lucky no one recognized him."

_Yes, that would have been bad._

The two sat in silence. Ilene continued to watch her brother's sleeping form. Alan seemed to as well, though she felt his gaze on her more than once.

"Ilene." She looked away from her brother. Alan suddenly looked nervous. He leaned forward and grabbed her hands.

Ilene's forehead crinkled. _What's wrong?_

"There's something—" He stopped and tried again. "I spoke with Sark earlier—"

He sighed and leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "What I'm trying to say …"

But he didn't go beyond that. Ilene stared at him, puzzled by his behavior.

"He's trying to ask you to marry him."

Ilene gasped, but turned to her brother. His weary eyes were open, and he didn't try to hide the annoyance in his gaze.

Ilene turned back to Alan. His mouth was open, surprised at Julian's interference. Suddenly he smiled and nodded.

"Will you marry me?" He whispered it as if only she would hear it, but Ilene still caught her brother rolling his eyes.

Her heart sped up and beat loudly. She could feel blood rushing to her head, and she pressed a hand to her warm cheek.

_What are you waiting for!!_

"Yes!" She practically leaped into his arms and kissed him. His lips were warm, as always, and she hugged him tight. _I'm getting married—to Alan!_ Alan's whole body seemed to sigh in relief.

She heard a groan from behind her, and knew it was Julian.

"Oh sure," he muttered. "First you ask my permission when I'm gagged, and then try asking her to marry you when I'm asleep."

"Evidently not asleep enough," Alan said, a teasing smile on his face.

"Hey, you'd still be stumbling if I hadn't woken up." Julian seemed to smile, despite his weakened state. That just made Ilene smile even more. _He approves. Not that I need that, but . . ._ Julian's opinion always mattered to her. They were close.

"Congratulations, to both of you," her brother said. He let his eyes close, and slipped back under in sleep. Ilene smiled at her brother. The love she had for him, and would always have, almost made her sad that he was so unhappy with life.

Alan hugged her and placed a long kiss on her lips.

"I love you," he whispered. Ilene couldn't help but grin.

"You better." With a teasing look, she kissed him back.


	17. Healing Temptations

a/n: Thanks to sallene for reading all this and helping me out! This is a massive chapter, and I have just two words to say about the content: Trust me.

**Healing Temptations**

Sark stirred the eggs, effectively scrambling them. The bacon in the other pan sizzled, and occasionally it sent splatters of grease on his skin. His arm twitched, but he let it go.

"Mmmhhh," he heard from behind him. "It smells good." Sark glanced over his shoulder. His mom stood there, her hair disheveled. She was still in her pajamas, as if she'd just rolled out of bed at the prospect of breakfast.

Sark smiled.

"Give me a couple of minutes, and it'll be ready," he said. He glanced over at his brother, who yawned as he poured orange juice in every glass at the table.

"I'll wake everyone up," his mom said.

Ilene and their dad joined them. It'd been empty lately, with Alan returning to London to straighten some of his business there, and Sydney returning to Los Angeles for awhile.

She called every day, saying hi to everyone and engaging Sark in what conversation he spared. He knew he was being distant, though he was trying to fight it.

It'd been two months since Sydney found him in Alaska, and dragged him to Alberta. Since then, and after his bout with pneumonia, he stayed with his family.

They were cautious around him. He couldn't blame them for that. No one really knew what set him running off. He wasn't even sure anymore.

Sark grabbed some tongs and started to remove the bacon from the pan. The grease seeped down and coated the plate.

Sark put that plate on the kitchen table, and returned to the stove for the eggs. _My, aren't we domestic?_

He promptly told himself to shut up.

"Jul, this is good," Ilene said pleasantly. Sark nodded, turned away to get some toast.

Everyone ate quietly, and Sark could feel the tension as he sipped at his orange juice.

"So, this was a nice surprise," his mom said. Sark smiled tightly.

"What's the occasion?" That came from his father. _Ever the one to be blunt. _Not that he was surprised. He usually helped with meals, when he wasn't taking a solitary walk around the neighborhood. But to outright prepare a meal?

"There is something, actually," Sark said. He set his glass on the table and leaned back in his chair. He paused, unsure of how to voice this. His eyes studied the bacon grease as a distraction. "Um, I've been thinking about taking a little vacation."

He could feel and hear the relief through his family.

"Alone," he added, and the relief was short-lived. No one said anything, so Sark plowed ahead.

"I just thought it'd be good to do something. On my own," he said. Again, no one said anything, though he noticed the doubting looks between his parents. "Look, this isn't to disappear for good or anything. I just need … some time. And space."

Ilene stared at him directly. Sark stared back, pleading with his blue eyes to just accept his request. He saw the fear in her eyes.

His dad cleared his throat.

"Where are you planning on going?"

--------

The afternoon sun beat down on his body. Sark lay on the beach, just absorbing the feel of relaxation. The sand scraped against his skin, but he didn't much care.

He left Canada two days ago, and planned to stay for two weeks. He made sure to tell his family that—it comforted them to know he did actually plan to come back.

The waves splashed on the shore, driving sand and foam towards his feet. It lapped over his toes once. Sark sat up. The tide was coming in, closer and closer.

_Time to move._ He got to his feet, stretching as he did. That's when he noticed the woman. He'd felt like he was being watched for awhile, but now he knew who it was.

She was tall and thin, and obviously very pleased with how she looked. She was even more pleased when Sark noticed her. Her blonde hair blew back in the wind, and she lifted her chin as if to challenging that wind to mess up her golden strands.

Sark bent over and picked up his tank top. He pulled it over his head, and covered many of his scars. He wasn't concerned with people noticing them. While he was sure the blonde noticed, Sark imagined it added to his mystery. Not that he was trying to pick up women, but how could he help someone appreciating his body?

He smirked at that. _Cocky as ever._ It felt good, actually. It was liberating. Being with his family made him think he had to be better. Calm. Collected. Strong yet polite.

_To hell with that._ For now anyway.

He grabbed his towel and walked away from the Bahamas' surf.

His feet slid in the sand, sinking and moving back as he walked. The granules got between his toes, and he wiggled them once he hit the sidewalk that led to his cabana.

He hadn't gone far when he heard the padding of bare feet behind him. Sark glanced over his shoulder.

"Excuse me," a woman said. Sark stopped and turned to see the blonde. She offered a nice, white smile, no doubt from the same bleach she used on her hair. But the smile seemed genuine, something Sark wasn't used to.

"You left these in the sand," she said, holding up a pair of sunglasses. Sark blinked at them. He hadn't even realized it, and that was very unusual of him.

"Oh. Thank you." He took them from her, and started to turn away.

"Um," she started. Sark paused, a small smirk playing at his lips. Her voice was timid and accented. He wasn't sure where she was from, but her speech patterns were drawled and laid back. Not like a Texan, but more like someone who'd lived in the Bahamas for a long time.

"There's a good bar around the corner," she said. Sark raised an eyebrow. "They've got a good homemade brew. They open at 9 tonight."

Sark smiled and glanced at the sidewalk.

"Thanks for the tip," he said. He shot her an apologetic grin and continued to his cabana.

His cabana was simple but nice. Wicker furniture, sliding doors with his own private veranda facing the water… Well, not as private as he'd like, but it was all he could get on short notice.

He slid the door shut behind him, locking it as well. He threw off his tank top and swimsuit and went to the bath tub.

As he dressed later, he wondered what he would do that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

He hadn't really made plans beyond just relaxing. _That's the beauty of it. You can do whatever you want._

And without the pressure that had been on him constantly lately. He sighed as he buttoned a light blue shirt. He left the top three buttons undone, and the shirt hung out over his khaki shorts.

Sark was styling his hair when something outside his cabana caught his attention. He turned away from the mirror and glanced out the window.

A catamaran sailed by near the shore. Sark walked out to his veranda and watched the boat as it slid a mile away to rental shop.

_That could be fun._ He shrugged to himself. _Tomorrow._

Sark grabbed the key to his cabana, and left without his gun. He almost hadn't brought it at all on this trip. He just didn't want to worry about that aspect of his life. Tonight was no exception. He left it in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

The evening breezes blew by, relieving some of the humidity. Sark's skin already felt moist, even with the sun almost gone into the ocean. He tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled to the town.

The shop owners were starting to take down their outdoor displays and prepare to close for the day. A few tourists ran past him, no doubt late for the boarding call on their cruise ships.

The sound of the people chattering started to just fade to the background, almost like music. Sark listened to it as he walked. His eyes searched for a restaurant. There wasn't much by way of fancy here, but that didn't matter tonight. He felt like take-out tonight.

An obliging Chinese restaurant appeared. He could smell the oily noodles two blocks away. Sark smirked at that, and went to place his order.

The food wasn't bad—not terribly authentic, but he doubted the cooks had actually made it to China. He picked at the food, trying to eat what he could. He finally pushed the food away and left the establishment.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sark took it out, but didn't answer it. The number belonged to his family. He sighed. He hadn't asked them not to call, but since the whole point of his "vacation" was to get away, he just thought they'd get the point.

The phone vibrated again, two quick shakes. Sark dialed his voicemail.

_"Hi Julian!__ We just wanted to see how you're doing. Calvin thought of something he wanted from the Bahamas, so if you could bring back a model sail boat, he'd really appreciate it. We love you!" _His mom hung up, and Sark promptly deleted the message.

He kept walking, his hands in his pockets again. Suddenly he heard music, not really loud rock but a swaying beat that caught his attention. It came from a bar. Sark went in, feeling like a drink was in order.

The bar was packed, so much so that Sark almost turned and left. Crowds were never his thing. But he reminded himself that he had nothing better to do.

He pressed ahead until he found a spot at the bar. He glanced over the various choices before, and winced.

_No wine._

_What did you expect?!_

A pretty bartender appeared and gave him a nod.

"Vodka, please," he said smoothly over the roar of patrons. She nodded, and appeared two seconds later with his drink in hand. Sark passed her a bill.

She smiled tightly and moved on to the next order. Sark smiled at his drink. He admired bartenders—they weren't soft. They didn't waste time. And they had guts to take on less-than-intelligent customers.

Sark moved away from the bar and found a spot in the corner, not far from a little stage where a local band played. He didn't bother to sit—there weren't any available chairs—so he just leaned against the wall.

The liquor was cool, though it raked his throat as he slowly sipped it. Sure, he could toss it back and be ready for another one, but he wasn't one to get drunk. He had enough problems, and he didn't need another from incapacitation.

Someone was watching him again, and it bothered him. Sark looked around the room.

It wasn't just someone. Several people were watching him, all female except for a couple of jealous boyfriends. _Oh please—can't I enjoy a drink?_

He sighed and turned his attention to the stage. The vodka was almost gone, and Sark downed the little that remained. A waitress passed, and Sark deposited his glass on her tray. She turned.

"Anything else?" she asked. Sark glanced at her, and then froze for a moment.

It was the blonde from the beach. She grinned, showing him her white teeth again.

"Oh, you came!" she said. _This must be the bar she talked about._

_ She works here._ He hadn't expected that. He shrugged.

"Have you tried the beer?" she asked. Sark shook his head.

"I'm not much of a beer-drinker," he said politely. She patted him on the shoulder.

"I'll get you one. On the house," she said. With that, she moved away, picking up glasses as she went.

Sark watched her until she was at the bar. She leaned over it and poured a beer. _She's actually doing it?_

_Better go now._ He headed for the front door, which unfortunately was on the opposite side of the room. As he walked through the crowd and past tables, he felt his heartbeat increase. He was anxious to leave.

And suddenly he was stopped. Two girls stood in his path. He furrowed his brow, confused at why they stopped him. They couldn't have been more than 19 years old.

"Hi," one said, in a very obvious Southern California accent. Sark smiled and turned to go another direction.

Which was blocked off by yet another girl.

"What's your name?" this one asked. She had red curly hair. It actually looked beyond frizzy in this humidity.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to push by her. He felt someone grab his arm. It wasn't threatening, but Sark was very tempted to throw a punch.

One of the first two girls pulled on his arm so he'd face them.

"That's not a name," she said, giggling. Sark rolled his eyes.

"How perceptive of you," he said blandly.

"Are you English?" one asked. Her eyes were wide with the possibility. _It's the accent_, he thought. _Why not just always talk like New Yorker? That would scare any woman._

"No, I'm Chinese." His tone was getting across now, and one of the girls scowled at him. "Now if you'll let me by . . ."

The red head piped up. "Oh, don't go!" She stepped in Sark's path again and gave him the saddest excuse for puppy eyes he'd ever seen. "We've been watching you since you came through the door."

"And you can watch me leave through it," he said through clenched teeth. His hand tightened to a fist.

"Ladies," a new voice said, "leave him alone." It was the blonde waitress, the rescuer of sunglasses. _And now the rescuer of you._ She gently pushed Sark forward, until they both were outside the bar.

Sark faced her as soon as it was clear. She had an amused look in her eyes.

"What?" he asked with a sigh.

"Couldn't handle a bunch of girls, huh?" Before he could get too offended, she held up a bottle. "Here," she said, pushing it into his hands.

Sark smirked to defend his pride, but took the bottle.

"They were … persistent, to say the least," he said. He just hung on to the bottle. He hadn't been kidding when he said he didn't drink the stuff. _Too low on the chain of alcohol._ "Thank you for interfering." It was an afterthought, but she didn't seem to mind.

"No problem," she said. He noticed she had her own bottle, which she took a swig of. She didn't have the waitress apron on anymore. _Must have just gotten off her shift._

"Well, thanks for the beer," Sark said. She laughed automatically.

"You haven't had one sip of it."

Sark tried to seem embarrassed, but it didn't work, and both knew it. "I'm a wine person," he said simply with a shrug and a smile. She smiled back, and he instantly realized that had been her goal.

She leaned towards him, her fingers brushing over his as she took the bottle away. With a toothy grin, she tossed it down an alley. The glass shattered and they could hear the hiss of the fizzing alcohol. Sark raised an eyebrow at her.

"So what type of person are you, beyond a wine-drinker?" she asked. She started walking, and Sark joined her.

_What am I doing?_ He shook his head.

"What type of person am I?" he repeated. _Isn't _that _a loaded question._ His hesitation must have clued her in.

"Okay, what's your name then?" she said. Sark smiled. _And another precarious question._

"Patrick," he said, using an alias. "And yours?"

"Kora."

He nodded. The name suited her.

"How long have you lived here?" he didn't know why he asked, but it filled the void as they walked. They seemed to be heading to the beach, judging by the increasing roar of the waves.

She had both of her hands in her hair, taking down a ponytail. Her hair was long, beyond the middle of her back. It was damp from work and the climate, but it still was pretty—

"I've been here for about four years," she answered. "I came here from Georgia." He nodded.

"Notorious for their peaches," he commented lightly. It made her laugh.

"Yes, they're obsessed with their peaches," she said.

"What made you leave there?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Oh, just . . . not my scene anymore. I left college after a year, and decided to just . . . make it on my own." She glanced over to him with a tentative look. He smiled reassuringly. It was obvious that more than that made her leave, but Sark could sense the pain and let things be.

"So," she began, changing topics, "you knew I wasn't a native."

Sark nodded. "You have a drawl that's a little too American Southern." She laughed, a wavy, melodic sound.

"You're very observant," Kora said. "Let me see what I can figure out about you, Patrick." Sark's mouth curled at being called that. It was very Irish, and so maybe fitting, but he'd always sort of hated the name. _So you used it as an alias . . . why?_

She'd stopped walking, and Sark was slow to follow suit. They were on the beach now, just a few feet closer to the ocean than the sidewalk. She was studying him, looking him over from head to toe. Sark stood still and tried to appear impassive.

Finally she smiled.

"What?" he asked. She was confident, that was for sure. That made him curious.

"You're used to being alone. Private," Kora started. "I think it's from the pain you've had. Maybe you're still holding on to it." Her eyes flickered to his chest, then back to his eyes. "You don't like being hit on, especially by recent high-school graduates. And your name isn't Patrick."

_Hmm.__ That was smart._ He tried not to show any emotion, but that seemed to fuel her. Kora smiled victoriously.

"Not bad," he said finally. He looked away from her persistent studious looks, and out to the ocean. The town's lights reflected against the white caps. The waves were quite big, actually. It was awe-inspiring, and yet scary. Sark quickly looked away.

"So what's your name?" she asked.

"Call me Patrick," Sark said. She laughed.

"Fine." She started walking again. "Come on, _Patrick_."

He smirked as she led the way.

She didn't stop until her feet were well in the water. The waves rushed by her lean legs. Sark stood a little ways back.

"Come on," she said again, motioning for him to join her. Sark didn't move. He kept his hands in his pockets, and glanced at the growing swells of water. "I'm not in too deep, trust me."

That wasn't his concern yet, but he took a few steps until the water reached his toes. She rolled her eyes and sloshed over to him through the water. She grabbed his arm, pulling it out of his pocket, and pulled him deeper in the water.

Their legs were covered, and the waves now wet them to the waist. Another wave crashed, and Sark stumbled a bit.

"Are you scared of the water?" Kora asked. Sark shot her a look. "Why come to the beach if you're afraid?"

Sark sighed and faced the vast ocean. "The last time I was out in the ocean at night wasn't the most pleasant occasion."

Her hand suddenly touched his arm, and Sark almost jumped back. His eyes must have lit up with something that scared her, because she let go.

"Your scars," she said, and then swallowed. "The ocean?"

Sark nodded. _Simple enough explanation._ He knew she noticed the scars earlier at the beach. He was surprised, pleasantly so, that she hadn't questioned him about it till now.

"Do you mind if I ask how?" She was hesitant, and Sark appreciated her restraint. She at least knew he may not want to talk about it. Sark smiled, his eyes narrowed like a wise man.

"Maybe another time," he said. She nodded.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Sark laughed, until he saw she was serious. "Um, I plan to rent a catamaran for the day."

"Hmm, just make sure you get a good captain."

"Captain?" he repeated. He really would rather go alone.

"Yeah," Kora said. "There's no way they'll let you rent one without one of their own manning it."

Sark pursed his lips together as he thought. _I don't really want to be on a boat alone with a captain._

"Why don't you join me?" He wanted to retract that statement, knowing it would mean more to her than him.

_Or would it?_

"I'd like that," she said. Sark gave her a fake grin.

"Okay," he said. "I should go. I'll see you at 8 o'clock, over there." He pointed at the rental shops.

"Okay." Kora smiled, her white teeth almost shining in the darkness.

"Good night."

His conscience was screaming at him, questioning him, begging him to reconsider everything he had been and was doing. He made it to his cabana before he threw a pillow at the mirror. It didn't silence any voices, but it felt better.

_What about __Sydney__?_ _What are you doing getting to know some woman on an island, thousands of miles away from your family?_

_What does that matter?! She's just an acquaintance. _Was it wrong to meet new people when you travel?

_Sydney__!_

He sighed and fell back on his bed, foregoing any shower for now. His life was complicated.

"I'm a retired spy," he said aloud to the wicker furniture. "A retired terrorist who's still on Interpol's most wanted list, and who's still being hunted by enemies."

_And …you're a coward who keeps running away from commitment._

But it's not commitment that kept him away.

_Or is it?_ Why couldn't he just accept his family? Or Sydney?! She gave up her life practically! _Resigning from the CIA, almost moving to __Canada__ to be with me and my family . . ._

He sighed and grabbed another pillow, this time covering his face with it.

_Stop. Just relax, for a little while._

Things would make sense, eventually.

-------

It was 7:45 when he woke up.

"Crap!" He bolted out of bed, still dressed in his shorts and shirt from the night before. Sark darted to the bathroom and changed into his swim trunks and another tank top.

He dove for the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of orange juice. He thought about the gun, but instead grabbed a wad of cash for the catamaran.

_No weapons today either. Just enjoy._

Kora was waiting for him when he jogged up to the rental shops. They were their own mini marina, but with no motor boats.

"Just a second," he said. "Let me, uh, get the boat." He jogged on by into a shop, guzzling his orange juice as he slowed down.

The shop owner wanted ID and various paperwork. Sark obliged with the ID, fake of course, but didn't want to hassle with other things. He pulled out the wad of cash, and sectioned off a good portion of the bills.

"Here," he said, handing it to the owner. "I think this should more than cover today's rental." The owner's eyes were wide with the cash, as were another person's. A young man who just entered the shop raised an eyebrow at the exchange. Sark noticed his tattoo, that of a shark.

"Your captain will be out shortly. Enjoy the catamaran," the owner said, a slow smile spreading over his face.

He left the shop, ready to leave and find his boat.

"Which one?" Kora asked. Sark glanced around at the choices, nodding when he found the right name.

He jumped on board and turned back to help her. But Kora just jumped on board herself. Sark watched her. She had short jean shorts on, and a coral-colored bikini. She hadn't bothered with a tank top, though she did carry a small bag with whatever else he could guess.

A portly, and very tan man came out. "Welcome. I'll be your captain today." He yawned as he spoke.

_That's inspiring_. Sark was determined to ignore the man as much as possible.

"Any particular point of interest?" the captain asked.

Sark looked to Kora.

"Some place to snorkel," she said, with a glance at Sark. He nodded.

"Whatever, wherever."

With that, Kora grabbed Sark's hand, and almost pulled him down on the netting over the water. The captain got the boat going, motors even, and soon they were off.

The wind flew through his hair, and Sark soon found himself leaning back, facing the sky and feeling the ocean spray over his body.

"You'll get a funny tan line with your shirt on," Kora said suddenly. Sark sat up. He didn't want to analyze her statement. He just obliged and took off the tank top. He noticed she'd taken her shorts off, and was clad only in her bikini.

Sark lay back down on the nets and closed his eyes. His hands were behind his head, supporting it as the boat sloshed over the water.

Suddenly he felt something on his chest. He moved his arms and raised his head to see what it was.

Kora studied his many scars. Her fingers gently touched one. Then she moved to the next scar. It felt . . . Sark swallowed, and just watched her. She appeared confused, and even concerned for him, as if the wounds were just created.

He looked at his chest. It really was a sight. The scars were mostly just white lines, puckered above the normal smoothness of his skin. Some were more jagged than others, but almost all had healed otherwise.

Kora finally sat back. He could tell she wanted to ask him more about the scars, but he was glad she didn't.

_Just enjoy; relax,_ he told himself.

Hours went by. Kora and Sark ended up in the water, which was nice and calm. They grabbed some snorkeling gear and dove beneath the surface of the water.

He saw an eel, something that really sort of freaked him out, but he refused to show it. Kora pointed out a tiny octopus, and also some sting rays. Sark took it all in, just enjoying a side of the water he'd never thought of before, except on menus of Japanese restaurants.

Kora dove beneath the water again, and Sark watched her as she swam deeper. She was picking something up. It looked like a little sponge or something.

Suddenly he saw something dart around them. Sark whirled his body around. It was a shadow, but it moved. Sark's eyes followed it closely.

_Shark._

It was probably only five feet long, but that was more than enough to convince him to get out of the water. Keeping one eye on the shark, Sark dove beneath the water and motioned for Kora to come.

He pointed to the shark, and she turned. Suddenly she dropped whatever she held before, and she swam frantically to him.

Both of them broke the surface and swam quickly back to the catamaran. Sark helped Kora get up first, and then with a glance back at the shark, he got out of the water.

His chest was heaving faster than his heart. Underneath the nets, he saw the shadow of the shark pass.

"Hey, Captain," Sark shouted out. The man popped his head out of the lower deck.

"Yeah?"

"Are sharks normal to this area?" Sark pointed at the predator's form as it went deeper.

The captain simply shrugged. "Where to next?"

Sark rolled his eyes.

He and Kora lay back again, just enjoying the speed and safety above water. Sark glanced at his skin.

_You're frying_, he thought.

"Do you have any sunscreen?" he asked Kora. In his hast in the morning, he forgot his own. She nodded and dug through her bag.

She watched him as he rubbed the lotion of his chest and arms.

"Want me to do your back?"

Sark froze momentarily. She looked scared that she'd voiced that, but he nodded. He saw her swallow.

His eyes shut involuntarily as she started rubbing the lotion over his back. It was soothing, to say the least. With slow, circular motions, she massaged the lotion into his skin. And then she seemed to run her fingertips over the scars on his back.

He crawled over the nets, away from her.

"Thanks," he said. He played off the motion, and leaned over the boat to wash his hands from the oiliness.

"No shark could make those marks," she said. Sark slowly leaned back and faced Kora.

"You're right," he said. Her head tilted to the side, prompting him for an answer. Sark sighed. "It was coral," he said. "Among other things," he muttered.

"And your legs?" she asked. He glanced down at them. There were scars there too, but from a knife and bullet.

"Something else," he said simply. He heard her sigh and look away. _That was such a __Sydney__ thing to do._ He froze at that thought.

"Did you do them to yourself?" That seemed to come from nowhere. Sark sighed again.

"They weren't self-inflicted, but I bear some responsibility," he said. That only seemed to confuse her more. "Kora," he said, trying to curb some curiosity. "I've had a colorful past. I'd like to leave it there, if you don't mind."

She nodded slowly. And that ended it for awhile.

--------

When they docked again, the last of the sun's rays were close to disappearing. Sark helped Kora off the boat, and surprisingly, she accepted.

"Thank you, Patrick," she said. "I had a fun day." She said it, but Sark heard the underlying disappointment in her voice.

_From what?___

_ From you hiding, as usual._

"I'm glad you came," he said. They started walking. Doubts clouded Sark's mind, pestering him to tell her something directly.

_No. It'll get her in danger. And me too._

He didn't want to cause anyone undue harm.

Their walk was in silence, maybe because of tiredness, and maybe because of the strain Sark caused. In the darkness, though, it hid some blatant awkwardness he felt.

"Give me your cash." It was a hiss and a demand, coming from behind them. Kora gasped and Sark tried to react, but she was grabbed by one of them.

_How many?_ Two—and from the lights from the town, Sark could see the faint outline of a tattoo of a shark. Sark felt that man press a blade to his back.

"I know you have cash. Give it, now!" He kept his voice low. The other mugger held a knife to Kora's throat.

"Let her go," Sark said calmly. The blade at his back pinched into his skin.

"Money, now!"

_Just give it to him. You have millions still._ Slowly Sark pulled out the remaining wad of cash. He held it up, and the assailant behind him grabbed it and moved in front of Sark.

"Stay here, or we'll kill her." They started to back away, Kora still in their grasp.

Sark started to protest, but the knife against her throat silenced him. She whimpered, her eyes wide and panicking.

_They'll kill her_.

Sark narrowed his eyes. He watched them as they ascended the beach. They disappeared into some trees.

And Sark sprinted.

He ran to the right, not following them directly. He dodged through trees as quietly as he could. Kora yelped somewhere ahead, but it wasn't pain. _Yet_.

_And where's your gun?_ He smirked.

_I don't need a gun for them_.

There they were, ahead of him and to the left. They were gagging her, and tying her hands.

_They planned this out_. Or they were just overly prepared. It annoyed Sark, and that fueled him.

He kept himself low to the ground. The one with the shark tattoo grabbed Kora by the hair. He sneered close to her face. The other one started to tease her with the knife.

Sark moved slowly, almost painfully slow, but he couldn't risk discovery. His feet slowly felt their way over twigs and sand.

_Three more steps._

He was in position.

The one with the knife started to tear at Kora's shorts. _He's playing with her_. Sark knew the knife would find its way to her top.

_Quickly._

He took two bounds and suddenly twisted his body to kick the man in the head. He fell away from Kora, his knife still in hand. The whites of the other guy's eyes showed his fear, but he tried to launch an assault on Sark.

Sark easily fended off the first punch, diverting it to the side, and opening his target up. He slammed the man twice in the gut, then kneed the man in the head. Sark heard Kora scream through her gag.

The first one punched Sark in the back.

_Ow__._

He stumbled to his knees, but quickly turned to catch a follow-up kick. He caught the man's leg and twisted it abnormally. He heard the twist of cartilage and the man screamed as he fell again.

Sark was up on his feet again. But neither man was moving. _They're not used to this._

_ Me._

_ Kill them._

Kora whimpered. Sark shook his head, and went to her side. He removed her gag first, then untied her hands.

"Come on," he said, getting her to her feet. He didn't bother to collect his money.

She was numb, but her body shook. Sark tried to get her to stop shaking as he half dragged her out of the trees.

He stopped.

"Are you cold?" he asked. Her wide eyes didn't move, and she didn't answer. Sark pursed his lips together and took off his tank top. He put it over her head, trying to provide what little warmth he could. Then he scooped her up, holding her in his arms.

He walked quickly back to his cabana. It was close, and he had no idea where Kora lived.

He glanced back over the way he'd come, his eyes alert and searching for any threats. Seeing none, Sark quickly went into his cabana.

Kora still hadn't said anything, but she started to follow him with her eyes. Sark double checked the locks on the doors. He wanted to get his gun out of that bottom drawer, but he didn't want to scare Kora any more.

He went to the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He ripped off the cap and chucked it across the room.

"Here," he said. "Drink something."

She just stared at him, waiting, debating. And then she reached for the bottle and drank. Her hands still shook, and the water dribbled down her chin.

Sark found himself stroking her forehead, trying to calm her. He glanced at her arms. They were covered in goose-bumps.

Sark jumped to his feet and grabbed a blanket from the closet. He fluffed it out and spread it over Kora.

"Come on, Kora," he said, by her side again. "Talk to me." Her eyes darted over his.

"Ca—can you . . ."

"Can I what?" Sark asked. She held the bottle away, and he took it from her.

"Can you hold me?"

Such a simple request. Plan and sincere. Sark nodded. He sat on the bed and moved himself by her. Then he gently pulled her close to him, until he held her between his arms and legs.

"Rest," he said. "You'll be fine."


	18. Trust and Acceptance

a/n: Once again, trust me!! Thanks to sallene, as always!

**Trust and Acceptance**

She watched him, her head back and to the side to stare up at him. His head leaned again the wicker headboard.

Sark saw her immediately when he woke up. He smiled slowly.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice raspy. It made her smile.

"Better."

"Good," he said gently. Slowly, Sark unwound himself from her and the blanket. When he stood, his back cracked, a long series all the way down his spine. He grimaced.

He wasn't sure what to say. He was unaffected by the mugging, but then again, he was used to danger. Kora was not. _Wait to see what she says_.

Sark's cell phone buzzed on top of the dresser. It wasn't a call, but another message. Sark didn't really want to check the message, but just in case it was something serious . . .

_"Julian, it's Ilene. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you'd want to know that __Sydney__ got back here safely."_

He gulped.

"_Also, could you bring back something for me? I wanted to get a boat, for Calvin. His birthday's coming up, so if you could—"_

Sark deleted the message, rolling his eyes. Kora watched him, her eyes open to this different moment he allowed her to see. He smiled tightly at her.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said. "Will you be all right?"

She nodded.

--------

It took some convincing, but Sark finally coaxed her out of the cabana. She was afraid, not that he blamed her. But Sark knew he had little food in his place, and he was starving.

They went to some resort and ate there. Kora picked at her food, but she did eat a little of it.

She was staring at him now as he ate. Sark swallowed, and stared back.

"What?" he asked. She glanced at the table top for a second, then back at him.

"You weren't scared at all," she said. Sark reached for some grapes, and leaned back in his chair. He casually popped the grapes in his mouth one by one as he thought.

"No, not really," he admitted. Although he felt nervous for her safety, he knew he could prevent the harm the muggers threatened.

She seemed confused. Sark waited for her next question.

"How were you not afraid?"

Sark chewed on a grape somewhat thoughtfully. _How do I say this without giving too much away._

He tried to be light-hearted about it. "I just knew I could stop them." She seemed satisfied with that.

"Did you get your money back?" she asked, taking a sip of water. Sark's lips twitched, and he shook his head.

"It wasn't much," he said.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Sark tried not to choke on a grape.

"Um," he started, thinking quickly. "I learned from one of my mentors." He almost snorted when he said that. _Irina__, a mentor._

_ Not the best example._ But it worked.

"Thank you." Her eyes were wide now, and sad. Sark froze. "Thanks for saving me."

She was quiet the rest of the meal. Sark led her away from the restaurant, heading to where she said she lived.

Her eyes shifted everywhere, as if she were looking for someone. Her arms were tensely folded across her chest. Sark kept glancing at her. _What is she worried about?_

Suddenly she stopped walking, her eyes widely fixated ahead of her. Sark looked up at what caught her attention.

The first thing he noticed was the shark tattoo. The young man seemed bigger in daylight. Then again, he'd seen him in the catamaran shop, but for some reason the man seemed larger now.

Sark gauged that the man's bulk didn't stem from muscle, but he seemed motivated enough. He glared across the street at Sark, and then let his eyes wander over Kora.

"Patrick," Kora whispered fearfully.

Sark looked around them, but didn't see Shark Boy's friend. _You _did_ damage his knee_.

_But still, better go soon._

Sark led Kora along, into another bar. "Why don't we wait here for a little while?"

She was shaking again.

"Hey, Kora, it's okay," he said. He pulled her to his body and wrapped his arms around her.

She shook her head vigorously.

"No, it's not," she said, almost whimpering. "We should go to the police, Patrick."

_Uh…Not likely._

"It's all right. I won't let them hurt you," he said. _Why do you even care?_ Something about this woman made him feel like he had to protect her. _Mainly because she can't protect herself._

_Sydney__ would never be so afraid._

He told himself to stop comparing, especially now.

"You're just a tourist," Kora said. Her voice hissed at him as her fear turned to anger. "I _live_ here!"

He sighed. "Look, I'll take you to the police station, all right?" Her eyes narrowed at him.

"You're not coming with me," she noted. "Why?" Sark sighed again.

"I'll take you to the police, but I'd rather not make the report."

"Why not?"

Sark didn't answer her, but stood up, ready to leave. He didn't look at her, but kept his eyes on the exits.

Finally she stood up and they left.

His eyes darted around now, half because of Shark Boy and half because he just felt skittish now. He didn't like lying—_that's new!_—especially to this woman. He didn't know why. But he couldn't help the anger he felt now that she questioned him.

_What do you expect? She doesn't know a thing about you, and if she did, she would run for her life._

He pursed his lips together.

The police station was a good fifteen minute walk away. Cabs passed by, but it was easier this way. Sark didn't say a word.

They were a few blocks away when Kora suddenly stopped. Sark looked around quickly.

"Patrick," she said. Her voice was soft, and when Sark looked at her light eyes, she looked . . . sorry. "I didn't mean to … I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable."

He almost laughed, but she pulled his arm and led him away from the public eye. They retreated to an alley between a restaurant and a shop.

She stopped and turned Sark's body so she was facing him. Sark took a step back and leaned against a wall.

"I know you said you wanted to leave your past alone, and I didn't respect that," she said. "I should have been . . . better, to you."

Sark glanced at his shoes. _Well, that was nice of her. Now what?_ He tried to find something to say, something to put her at ease.

"Kora—"

Suddenly her fingers covered his mouth, shushing him. She closed the distance between them, and kissed his lips.

Sark almost jumped. Her lips were warm and soft. But she was being firm, pressing against him. It was tentative at first, but now she was more fervent.

He didn't know when it started, but he kissed her back. Her hands caressed his arms, moving over his firm muscles and onto his chest. Sark allowed his hands to settle at her waist, but his thumbs moved in circles over her lean hips.

His eyes were shut, savoring the taste and feel of her. He could feel his heart racing, something it hadn't done for romance in awhile.

She pulled back and looked into his blue eyes. She was searching for something to say, something to fill the moment or compliment it. But Sark didn't want words. He moved forward, driving her back against the other wall, and then he kissed her hard. He braced his left arm against the wall, shielding them somewhat as they kissed. His other hand ran light paths down the side of her torso.

He nipped at her lips, and she nipped back. His breathing was ragged, but he didn't let up as he kissed her. She matched his pace and that fueled him more.

Gravel scraped at the entrance of the alley, but Sark ignored it. _Let them watch if they want_. Kora was driving him mad, and he loved it.

He heard another scrape, like a footstep. _Too close_. Sark suddenly pulled away and glared at the source.

_Crap._

It was Shark Boy, wielding another knife. But the whelp wasn't alone. Kora gasped as she saw them too.

_Five men, versus me and Kora._ He immediately counted on just himself.

"You busted my friend's knee," the Shark Boy said. Sark rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure what you stole from me will cover the bills," Sark said.

"Yeah," the guy said. "But this will make me feel better." He lunged at Sark, catching air with his knife. Sark spun around and kicked him in the back. He quickly turned to the others as they came upon him.

He struggled and fought, but the odds weren't in his favor. One of them grabbed Kora, and that distracted him. She tried to scream, but the man easily held her. A knife was to her throat again, and Sark understood the threat. He stilled, and the other four, including Shark Boy, now had him.

They dragged him and Kora away, deeper into the alley and towards shacks behind the center of town.

--------

The muggers took Kora and Sark to a dirty shack. It'd been abandoned long ago, and the dirt and grime inside rivaled most subway stations. They slammed Sark's back into a rickety wall. It actually shook upon impact.

Sark winced.

"Let her go," he said between clenched teeth. The leader, with the shark tattoo, held the knife to Sark's face. The tip of the blade traced down his temple and cheek.

"No," he said. The man holding Kora had one hand clamped over her mouth, and the other held a knife constantly at her throat. Kora's eyes fed streams down her face. The fear in them made Sark start to fear—for her.

"I'll tell you what, though," Shark Boy continued. "I promise not to kill her. You, though . . ." He started to laugh, and his friends joined in. "We'll have to see." Suddenly he swung at Sark, nailing him in the face. Sark's head whipped back against the rickety wall.

Shark Boy swung again, but this time low in Sark's stomach. Sark coughed as he doubled over. The two men by his sides forced him up, and threw punches of their own to his chest.

It hurt, but Sark chastised himself for feeling the pain at all. _You should be beyond this. You've been through more than any spy has. _

Sark set his jaw firmly as his eyes blazed at his tormentors. _They have no idea._ Suddenly he smiled, even as blood flowed from his lip. It threw off the group for a second.

"What are you smiling about?" one of them taunted. He thrust forward with a knife and slashed Sark's shirt. And then his eyes widened when he saw Sark's scars.

"I'll give you one chance to leave us alone," Sark said, his eyes frozen over and staring into Shark Boy. His prey laughed it off.

"You think you're tough, huh? You think you can stop me if I want your girl?"

Sark didn't grace that with an answer, though his eyes flickered involuntarily to Kora. Shark Boy smiled triumphantly, and suddenly slashed at Sark. The knife singed through the air and then muted as it slashed through the skin on his chest.

Sark groaned, and tried to struggle, but the men slammed his back again against the wall. His eyes flared. "You won't live if you do that again."

The leader huffed at that, and swung again.

Sark wrenched his arms free from the holds on him, and caught the falling knife. He twisted his body and pulled the knife from Shark Boy's hands. He swiveled around and threw the knife, right into the shoulder of the man holding Kora. He screamed and started to go down.

Someone dead-legged him, and Sark went down on one knee. He could almost hear the air moving as someone swung at him. Sark pushed himself up with his hand. He turned and thrust his elbow into the nearest one, then turned again to drop-kick another. Shark Boy seemed emboldened and swore at Sark before launching an attack. He punched like a boxer, but with no grace. Sark dodged a hit, and another. Shark Boy's arm went past Sark, and that's when Sark made good on his warning. He grabbed the man's arm and pushed him further using his momentum. As Shark Boy's head went by, Sark grabbed it, and violently twisted it. A sickening crunch made all the man's allies stop.

Shark Boy fell dead to the floor.

_Finish it_.

He dove after Shark Boy's knife, rolling as he grabbed it. He came up on his feet and chucked the knife into Thug #3. It hit his chest.

The other two seemed nervous now as they got to their feet. Sark took two steps and spun around with his leg extended. He caught both of them at once.

He could end it. Part of him wanted to. It was self-preservation. They wouldn't just sit back now that he'd killed a couple of their friends. Sark sighed, and knelt by the two knocked-out thugs. Wearily, he punched each one in the throat. He heard the last breaths seep out like a leak in a tire.

He stayed hunched over their dead bodies for a moment. When he stood up and looked to Kora, she flinched. Her tears still flowed and she stepped back, away from him.

"Kora," he said, taking a step toward her. That just frightened her more.

"Please," she said, "Stay back." She almost tripped herself trying to put distance between them.

He sighed again. He could explain the reasons, but did it really matter?

"Who are you?" she whispered. It wasn't a request for his name. It was a question of his being. And after the tender moments they shared not long ago, it was a blow to Sark.

"I don't know." He didn't move, but just stared at her. She was frightened and her appearance was disheveled. But she didn't care. Sark finally turned away and left the shack.

His walk to his cabana was swift. Sark kept his arms crossed over his chest to the thin cut there. It would scab over, but Sark didn't expect a scar.

He had to leave soon, before Kora told the police where he was.

_Why did you do any of this?_

His life could never be normal, not when he was what he was. There just was no going back.

_I've changed._ Changed from the 16-year-old boy he was when he entered this world, and changed from the ruthless spy as well. Acceptance . . . well, it was hard to find.

But his family accepted him. It'd taken some time and trials, but they really didn't frown on him anymore. _Not that they condone it when I kill someone_, he thought. But he wasn't just black and white evil.

Sydney had accepted him too, he realized as he walked into his cabana. He grabbed for his gun and tossed it in his bag, followed by his other personal items.

Sydney didn't see him as this evil person either. She didn't condemn him for choosing this life of pain, or for even trying to disappear to compensate for it. _Even when she brought me back, she wasn't upset._

_ She was genuine._

_What have I done?_ She'd resigned from the CIA, that thorn in his side that competed for her time and attention—even her very life. She threw that away, to be with him.

_And where have you been? What have you been doing?_

Ignoring her.

Brushing her aside, laughing at her efforts.

Driving her away.

_Why?_

_Because you're too afraid to admit you could be happy with someone, and without the danger._

_No_, he thought. _That's not it._

_ Yes it is. _The danger would always exist, but the adventure seemed more alive when he only had himself to rely on. But Sydney offered to be part of the adventure.

_Even a normal life can be adventurous. _It could make him happy, if he was willing to stop and appreciate.

_Stop moping and running away._ For months now he had, and he had nothing good to show for it.

_I have to go back._ Not just because the police could be beating down his door any second, and not because the muggers might have more friends. _I . . . I need them._ All of them—his parents, his crazy brother, his dear sister and her fiancé, . . . and Sydney.

A shy tap on his door almost made Sark jump. It came from his veranda, straight off the beach. Kora stood there, her head low and her eyes meek.

Their eyes met, and Sark found himself letting her in.

She stared at him as she tried to tell him something.

"I don't know why I judged you," she said hoarsely. "It wasn't fair of me. Not when you saved me again."

Sark opened his mouth for his own apology, but she put a hand to his lips again.

"No, don't forgive me."

_Odd, _Sark thought. But he waited for whatever she needed to say.

"I want to make it up to you," Kora said. Her fingers found his latest wound and traced the sides of it. She stepped towards him, foot after foot, driving him back. His legs hit the bed. And then she leaned into him.

He fell back on the bed, his eyes wide but still. She climbed over him, straddling him, and then she fell against his chest and started to kiss him.

Her hot lips wandered over his face, kissing the bruises and cuts. She seemed to devour him, and Sark just lay there.

Her hands stroked his chest and wandered south. His breathing quickened, partially from lack of air as she claimed his lips. He felt her fingers brush below his stomach.

"Stop."

_Did she say that, or did I?_ She pulled back, confused.

"What?" It was a shy whisper of a question, but she followed it with a bold kiss.

"Mmmm," Sark tried to pull away. "Kora." She pulled back again. Her eyes searched his, wondering why he was slowing this. Sark quickly rolled out from under her and continued to gather his things.

"You don't have to run," she said. "I didn't go to the police."

_Interesting._ But it didn't change anything.

"Patrick, please." She was up now, and stood in his way.

Sark sighed and clenched his bag in his hand.

"I'm sorry," he said somewhat hollowly. "But this was a mistake." He swallowed. "I have somewhere I should be."


	19. Red Dawn

a/n: Thanks to all you readers who believed in me—I know the last two chapters were trying in some ways, but we got through! Thanks to sallene for previewing this for me!!

**Red Dawn**

It was 4 am when he pulled up to the house, after a long flight and a drive from the airport. Sark entered the house noiselessly.

No one stirred. He didn't want them to know he was back yet. He left his bag by the front door, and quietly climbed the stairs.

Sydney had her own room here, next to Ilene's. The door was shut. Sark wrapped his hand around the doorknob and turned it slowly.

She was asleep, unaware of the intrusion. Sark's eyes softened at the sight of her. She lay on her side with one hand tucked under her head. Her hair was spread out over her pillow. She didn't have a smile on her face—instead, she looked . . . tired. Sad.

He wondered what she dreamt.

Sark slowly moved to the four-post bed, and sat on the mattress. He leaned against the posts marking the end of the bed, and just watched her.

His heart was beating faster and faster. He swallowed hard and blinked.

_She is so beautiful._ Not just in appearance . . . He'd been near a beautiful woman, one who wanted him completely. But Kora wasn't what his heart ached for.

Sydney was.

_How could I have been so stupid? Why did I leave her, not telling her that I love her?_

Sark had felt confused for so long. He'd forgotten . . . everything. He sighed quietly, leaning his head back on the post.

Sydney first started to accept him after their unpleasant experience in Burma. He remembered when they kissed after the mudslide. He remembered how she fought, in vain though, to have Vaughn release him.

She came to him, after he found his family. She kept his secrets.

When Ilene was kidnapped, Sydney helped him. She backed him up with the rescue. She protected his sister when he foolishly went along with Irina's plan. And when he was caught by Strachen, even though he deserved it to an extent, Sydney came for him.

But it wasn't just her heroics. She kept coming to him, willing to give their complicated lives a try together, even when they both weren't sure if it'd work. And when she started to wonder if it was hopeless, it didn't stop her from helping him find his family.

He smiled to himself. _You fool. Don't ever let her go._

She stirred in her bed. Sydney turned on her stomach, stretching out so both of her arms slid under her pillow.

A smile still tugged at his lips. Sark breathed out a deep breath and leaned back, ready for now to fall asleep just in her presence.

It wasn't long before red rays started to shine through her bedroom window. The sun rose early, even for summer, but the beautiful red and pink rays spilled through the room and over his skin.

It spilled over Sydney too. _As if she wasn't beautiful enough already._She stirred again, this time lying on her back. He heard her sigh out in her sleep, and he sat up straighter.

Her eyes started to flutter as the dawn shone over her face. She looked to the window, and then her gaze wandered.

When it fell on him, Sark smiled.

"Sark?" she whispered. She seemed confused, not that he was surprised.

"Yes, Sydney. It's me." She started to sit up, leaning against her pillows.

"What . . . I thought you were in the Bahamas," she said. Her morning voice was cute, Sark decided. It was groggy but the spy in her tried to make sense of the situation even in the early hours.

"I wasn't where I wanted to be," he said. "Or with whom I wanted to be."

She didn't smile right away. It was as if she were trying to discern the truth, or what made him come back. The change in him must have been evident, and it threw her off.

"What happened?"

He glanced down at the sheets, then back at her large brown eyes. "A lot," he said simply. She raised an eyebrow at that. Sark leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk later."

--------

Sark hadn't been this upbeat since …

It'd been a while. Sydney sat at the kitchen table, watching as he chattered with his family.

They were completely surprised that Sark came back early. They were also thrilled.

Calvin stood up and took some dishes to the sink. Ilene quickly leaned towards her brother.

"Jul, did you get the boat?"

Sark winced, and Sydney had to raise an eyebrow at that.

"We'll buy it online. He won't know the difference." The gleam of mischief in his eyes made Sydney laugh, along with Ilene. It was good to have him back.

Now, did she want him back?

Sark told her before breakfast, before anyone else was awake. He told her about the Bahamas, about a waitress named Kora—the time they spent together. How he fended off and eventually killed muggers; how he kissed Kora.

Sydney hadn't said a word to him since then. _Am I angry?_

She was hurt. The throbbing in her chest told her that.

_But at least he confided in you_. He opened up, which was a novelty in and of itself. He'd told her how he was so confused about what he wanted, not from a relationship with some waitress, but what he wanted for him out of life. What he wanted to be and make his life into something he truly desired. She listened to it all.

Breakfast was dispersing, so Sydney excused herself and went outside. The backyard was large and simple. It had a great view of undeveloped land beyond the city. Sydney sat down in the grass and just stared ahead, her back to Sark's family home.

One thing bothered her about Sark's . . . confession. It _wasn't_ a confession. He just told her what happened. He hadn't asked for forgiveness.

_Shouldn't he have?_ It was like he didn't think he'd done anything wrong! _And the way he blabbered on at breakfast---_

No remorse.

Sydney shifted back and lay down on the grass, staring at the unblemished sky and feeling the pure sunshine on her face. She sighed heavily.

_Why did he have to leave? Why did he have to "spend time" with some woman, making out with her? All just to come running back to me._

_Am I not good enough for him as I am? Or did he see me as too complicated? So he had to find someone new . . ._

She gulped back a lump in her throat, and cleared her eyes. A bird flew overhead, chirping as it darted to a perch in a tree. Another one followed, but darted around freely as it saw fit.

_Was it freedom? He left because he wanted to be unburned? Am I a burden?_ She shook her head immediately, but then thought about his family. __

_ Did he just want to be alone, really?_

_ If so, why did he find the first girl that he could?_ Her blood began to run hotly through her veins.

_Do I really feel betrayed?_ She closed her eyes and just lay on the grass without thinking for a moment. She turned off the constant stream of thoughts in her mind and focused on everything around her.

She could still hear those birds, and also the wind as it rustled the lush leaves. The blades of grass embedded themselves in her skin, poking her calves and arms. The sun was getting strong, and she could almost feel the heat in waves.

She opened her eyes again, but didn't move.

_He cared enough to tell me. He was honest, even blunt but not to hurt me. _Did she admire that?

Sydney slowly stood up, brushing off pieces of grass. She turned back to the house, and froze.

From one of the bedrooms was a figure—someone watching her from the window.

It was Sark, she knew. His figure was leaning against the window frame, just watching her. She stared at his shadow, and then she saw him look down. Slowly he moved away, deeper inside the house.

_Maybe he is feeling a little guilty._

-------

The following days between them were tense. Sydney avoided talking to him without being too obvious, and he didn't force it.

But it was tiring her. She tried to banish the issue for awhile, as she and Ilene went shopping for the bride-to-be's wedding dress.

"Only a month away, Syd," Ilene said, her lips stretched in the widest smile imaginable. "I can hardly wait."

Sydney laughed, trying to shake the somber mood she'd been in. If nothing else, it was for Ilene's benefit. Her "happy day" was coming, and Sydney wouldn't be the one to spoil it.

"When does Alan get back?" He was still in London.

"Tomorrow night," Ilene said. She delved into a rack of dresses, all long and encased in thick plastic bags. "Ooooh, Syd, look at this one."

She held up one with puffed sleeves, and an obscene amount of ribbons. Sydney raised an eyebrow at the dress.

"Good thing Anne of Green Gables' style is out," Ilene said with a snicker. She put the dress back. Sydney began browsing, if nothing else than to shorten this trip.

"This is nice," Sydney said. She held up a gown that would be perfect for Ilene's slender form. It had a beaded bodice, and a train that lavished various beadwork as well. Ilene shrugged.

"Nice," she agreed. Sydney put the dress back. "So what's up with you and Julian lately?" Ilene didn't look at Sydney, as if to pass the question off less awkwardly.

Sydney slid some dresses down the rack, moving to find something that could turn the conversation's tide.

"Well," she said, and then sighed. "I don't know."

"Did you guys have a fight?" Ilene asked. Sydney's hands stopped mid-air over the dress racks. She didn't intend to answer that, not knowing how to respond without hurting Ilene, or her perception of Sark.

"I think this dress might be perfect for you," Sydney said quickly. She grabbed the gown in front of her and held it up. It was . . . poofy, but in an elegant way. In reality, she didn't know how good it'd look on Ilene, but it provided the needed distraction.

"Hmm," Ilene said, studying the gown. "I'll try it on." She turned to a rack and plucked a gown off of it. "Here, you try one too."

It took some convincing on Ilene's part, but Sydney consented. _It'll distract her from asking about me and __Sark__._

Sydney was amazed at all the layers in a wedding dress. She always thought the cake was supposed to be the most complex part, but now she knew it all lay within the dress. The gown she tried on was ethereal whiteness, over layer after layer of fluff and itchy, stiff fabric. Amazingly, the result was stunning.

Strategically placed darts in the gown slimmed Sydney's waist to near nothingness, and emphasized . . . all the right places instead. The skirt poofed out like a bell-shaped cotton ball, and it only enhanced the simple beauty of the dress. The only fancy embroidery was at the boat-neck line around her collarbones and at the hem and train of the dress.

"Wow," she whispered as she looked at her reflection in the tiny dressing room.

"Oh, Sydney!" she heard Ilene call from the modeling area. "Come see this!" Sydney smiled and picked up the train to walk.

Ilene looked stunning—_not bad for just a random dress to get her to shut up._ From the wide look of awe in her eyes, Ilene had found her dress. Sydney couldn't help but smile at her good friend.

Suddenly she sensed someone had walked in and was watching them. Sydney turned, expecting the saleswoman.

Instead, very wide and impressed blue eyes gazed at her.

"Julian!" Ilene had seen him from the reflection in the mirrors. She picked up the fabric of her skirt and stepped towards him. "What do you think?"

Until then, his eyes hadn't left Sydney, but when he finally admired his sister's dress, Sydney allowed herself to blush. She wanted to die, right there.

_He's going to think I'm wedding-crazy. Such a girly-girl—oh, this is mortifying._

_Wait—why should I be mortified? He's the one who admitted to making out with some girl in the __Bahamas__. I hate him, right?_

She knew that wasn't the case, but it made her feel more confident. As she looked back at the siblings, she realized she'd missed Sark's reaction to his sister's dress and Ilene's glee. Ilene pranced around in the modeling area, with a seamstress in tow for whatever adjustments.

It was after that she realized Sark had turned his attention back to her. Sydney didn't say anything as she watched him. His eyes started at her mere waist, traveling down to the train. He began to circle, his eyes on the hem and train. Sydney didn't move a muscle, but she swore she felt where his eyes gazed behind her.

When he circled back, his eyes traveled up, almost painstakingly slow. His face had been unreadable, until now. Finally he let a ghost of a smile show, and his eyes were bright as they stared into hers. Sydney's breath caught in her throat.

"You look stunning," he whispered for only her to hear. Sydney barely managed to swallow and nod some acknowledgement.

"So Jul," Ilene said, bounding back though her energy high seemed to ebb, "why'd you stop by?"

Sark finally tore his eyes from Sydney, clearing his throat as he did so.

"Well, since Alan's returning, I thought it'd be nice if we did something this weekend," he said.

"What'd you have in mind?" Ilene asked. Her face was so bright and cheery, Sydney was starting to get nauseated.

"A double date."

Sydney's stomach lurched. _A what?_

"Oh, that sounds fun!" Ilene said. She turned to Sydney, waiting for some agreement.

_He _is_ referring to me as his date, right? Not Kora?_ Sydney thought smugly. As if to relieve her doubts in him, Sark took a humble step towards her.

"Would you mind terribly?" Sark asked her. Sydney saw him swallow, as if he was unsure. _He thinks I may just turn him down._

_ I should, after that Kora-chick._ But that look in his eyes, as if his pupils drooped with sadness at the thought . . .

_Oh, who am I kidding?_

"Sure," she tried nonchalantly. She actually heard Sark sigh in his own relief.

"Thank you," he whispered with a reserved smile. His expression changed immediately to cheerfulness. "Well, I'll let you get back to shopping." His eyes grazed over her body again, and then he winked at Sydney as he left the shop.

_Kill me now._


	20. The Realms of Dating

a/n: thanks to sallene for her help!

**The Realms of Dating**

Dinner. Simple, traditional . . . and yet more nerve-wracking than jumping off a building.

Sark held the door to the restaurant open for Sydney. His eyes shut as she walked by and he caught just a hint of whatever scent she was wearing. He took a deep breath to calm his heart.

The restaurant was casual, but still nice enough for a good bottle of wine. Sark immediately stepped in at that point of the order while everyone perused their menus.

Ilene was almost bouncing with her wedding energy, and it was starting to annoy everyone—except Alan, of course. _Probably a good thing there—otherwise he'd back out_.

It was good to see Alan again, even though the two were never chummy. On the way to the restaurant, they'd made polite conversation, catching up on Alan's trip and whatever else. Now, sitting across from Sydney, Sark was glad to be able to engage her in conversation.

"What was life like for you two, growing up in Ireland?" Alan asked. He leaned back in his chair and started on his wine. Sark glanced at Ilene, and she took the lead with a smile.

"Normal. And fun," she said with a coy glance at her brother. Sark started to wonder what she was thinking about. "With Calvin and Julian around, things were always goofy."

"Really?" Sydney said. She suddenly leaned forward, and her interest scared Sark. "Give us an example."

"Yes indeed," Sark said, making light of it, "Give us an example." Actually, he didn't remember much from their childhood, and was curious what Ilene had in mind.

"Well, we went on this vacation to tour Scotland Yard," she started.

_Oh no._ Sark was remembering. He couldn't suppress a groan as Ilene continued.

"And Julian decided it would be fun to take his own tour." She flashed a mischievous grin at him. "So he grabs Calvin and me, and we go running off behind the tour group. We got to this elevator and up to the offices—which was restricted, of course—but no one stopped us until we got there."

Sydney grinned, liking where this was headed. _Even if it's at my expense.___

_ Especially if it's at my expense._

"This agent, or whatever, stops us and asks us what we're doing up here. Julian, as calm as can be, just says his mom works in the office, and that we're on our way to see her. The agent buys it, and we keep going—"

Alan started to laugh, shaking his head until Ilene held up one hand to silence him.

"It gets better. Julian somehow finds his way beyond the offices to their practice area—like, shooting and training. I don't know what he was thinking, but he waltzes right up to the manager over the area and says his 'mom on the 8th floor' told him to come down and target practice for awhile."

Sydney had a hand clamped over her mouth, and Alan didn't even try to suppress his laughter.

"The manager takes one look at us, and calls security," Ilene finished up.

Sark allowed himself to smile. "Yes, if I recall, I got into a lot of trouble for that one."

"How old were you?" Sydney asked. The gleam and light in her eyes made Sark's heart leap. It was the happiest he'd seen her in days.

"I don't remember," Sark answered. "Do you?" he said to Ilene. She shrugged.

"You must have been eleven or so," she said. "But the look on the guy's face!!" She laughed to herself.

"My first brush with Scotland Yard," Sark said lightly. Ilene took a liberal sip of her wine.

"Did your family travel a lot?" Sydney asked.

"We took at least one vacation every year," Sark answered.

"Oh!" Ilene suddenly exclaimed. "Do you remember that trip to Australia?"

_Australia__?_ He couldn't remember such a trip—they rarely left Great Britain, much less go around the world.

"Cal and I—" Suddenly Ilene stopped. "Oh." Sark nodded, realizing what she finally understood.

Sydney and Alan shared a look and then glanced between the siblings.

"What?" Alan asked.

"Um," Sark said, clearing his throat, "that must have been after I left."

"Left," Alan repeated. "For the world of international espionage, right?" He had a teasing gleam in his eye, and while Sark knew he was just kidding, he still wanted to clock him upside the head.

"Yes," Sark said, controlling his temper. "Thank you for pointing that out."

"Actually," Ilene said, stepping into the tense conversation. "I just remembered another memory." Sark raised an eyebrow at her, questioning if this one will be as . . . sensitive.

"What is it?" Alan prompted.

"Christmas," she said. Alan suddenly nodded. _What?_ Sark thought._ How does he already know where she's headed and I don't?_ "Remember how we open one present on Christmas Eve?"

Sark slowly nodded. "Yes. We'd draw names." Suddenly he scrunched his forehead, thinking. "We never celebrated Christmas—well, you guys probably did, but I missed the last two." He didn't bother to mention the eight Christmases before that.

"Do you remember that you drew my name?"

He smiled, seeing where his sister was headed. "Yes, two Christmases ago. But I never got to give it to you."

She leaned forward, excited. From the corner of his eye, Sark saw Sydney hold back a laugh at Ilene's eagerness.

"What is it?" his sister asked. Sark smirked and casually crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's not Christmas," he said with a cocky air. Ilene groaned and looked to her fiancé for help. Alan just held up his hands.

"Don't look at me," he said.

"How about this, Ilene," Sark said. His eyes wandered as he thought about the issue. He ran a hand through his blonde hair. "I'll make it a wedding present." His eyes sparkled with what he knew, taunting that to his sister.

She made a show of pouting but nodded.

--------

Sydney had to admit dinner was quite entertaining. Hearing about Sark and Ilene's growing up years and seeing the obvious bond between them made her happy.

"We're going to get some ice cream," Alan said as they left the restaurant. "Want to come?" His arm was wrapped lovingly around Ilene and she cuddled to that comfort.

Sydney started to nod, but Sark cut her off.

"No, I think we'll just take a walk and meet you at home."

She stared at him. _Didn't see that coming_. But maybe she should have. They hadn't really had time alone in awhile, especially with the whole Kora thing.

Sydney knew Sark was going insane about that. She hadn't said a thing to him about it, instead just maintaining distance between them. He probably expected her to yell and get mad at him openly, but she hadn't.

_And that's probably worse for him_. She almost smiled at that.

They walked off, down the street. There was no contact between them, no snuggling or arms around each other as they walked. _We're not to that point anymore._

"You were kind of quiet during dinner," Sark commented. Sydney almost rolled her eyes.

"I was just listening," she said plainly. Realizing how cold that might have sounded, she hurried on. "It was interesting, finding out some of your memories with your family."

He merely nodded. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his khakis. Sydney took a second to appreciate his appearance. His shirt was a simple short-sleeved green button up, but the contrast of green against his blue eyes and slightly tan skin was gorgeous. His hair was getting long, she noticed. It was starting to curl, and not spike the way he tended to like it.

"You need a haircut," she said. Instantly she wanted to hit herself. Sark raised an eyebrow at that.

"I'll see to that tomorrow," he said, a little aloof. "That was random."

Sydney felt her skin heat up. "Yeah, well . . . just trying to keep you on your toes."

And then the silence, diminished only by their footsteps. Sydney looked at where they were headed, and saw the park that she had found Alan's car at a couple of months ago.

"So tell me about some memories of your mom," Sark said suddenly. She shot him a look. "Well, we've heard about my childhood to an extent. Now it's your turn."

Sydney sighed with a sad smile on her lips. "You know her better than I do. You spent more time with her than I have. Why don't you tell me something?"

Sark swallowed and visibly blanched. Sydney almost felt bad for turning the situation on him. Almost.

He cleared his throat, bringing a hand to cover his mouth and then tucking it back into his pocket.

"Um," he started uneasily, "well, I went to your mother as an employee. Our relationship was always based on the work. But eventually she trusted me enough that I started to see … the human side of her."

Sydney didn't say anything, but just listened as they walked. She could feel the awkwardness in his voice, the regret as he recalled a time in his life that caused so much pain. But he kept going, and she didn't stop him.

"There was this one time, when she sent me out to steal something from Colombia. It was right around Christmas, Christmas Eve, I think." He stopped as if remembering bit by bit. "I couldn't have been more than eighteen at the time. The op was successful, though I had a bit of a run-in with some dogs. When I got back the next day, I was in my room, cleaning myself up. And she came in, all dressed up in a sequined dress, looking very formal and all."

Sydney suddenly had a sickening thought that her mom seduced Sark. She swallowed the bile threatening to rise in her throat.

"She opened up my closet, where this tuxedo was waiting. She said, 'Sark, we're going out tonight.'" He laughed at the memory, and Sydney could see the endearment in his eyes. She allowed herself to breathe normally. "We went to this very elaborate party, eating fine foods and drinking wine. And we danced and just had a good time." He paused again. "It was the first time I'd seen her really casual—not acting. She didn't care what anyone thought about us, whether we were mother and son, or lovers, or, in reality, co-workers…" He trailed off again. "I perfected the tango that night."

He laughed again, and as Sydney looked at him, she saw him blush a little.

"Anyway, after that I didn't just work for her. I cared about her, as my mentor and as a friend."

Sydney let that sink in as they walked through the park.

"While you were gone, did you see her?" she asked. Part of her had suspected that after he faked the assassination attempt in Ontario. Part of her feared he'd gone back to Irina and that life.

"No, Sydney." That hand came up to run through his hair again. "I haven't seen her since I got the Retract files back, last year." He sighed. "To be honest, I really don't want to see her again."

That surprised Sydney, especially after the fond memory he shared.

"Why not?"

He sighed again and stopped walking. He threw back his head and stared at the night sky before answering.

"I just don't trust her," he said quietly. "No matter how much I may believe her or want to believe her, I will always wonder what her true motives are."

Sydney stared at the ground. She'd felt the same way too, but she couldn't hate her mother. Part of her believed that Irina just couldn't help herself sometimes. And in that way, her mother was weak.

"You know, speaking of trust," Sark said, clearing his throat again. "Are you ever going to forgive me for what I did in the Bahamas?"

That made her mad. In a flash, her blood started to rush through her, sounding like a tidal wave in her ears.

"Did you ever ask for forgiveness?" she shot back. "No—you just told me you made out with some waitress while on vacation." She hadn't yelled, but the anger in her voice was barely contained.

"Sydney, I told you because I wasn't going to hide my mistake," Sark said.

"Well, gee, Sark," she said between clenched teeth. "Thanks for that honesty." With that, she quickly scurried off away from him.

_The nerve! He thinks he's doing me a favor by being honest._

_ Wait—that came out wrong. I'm glad he was honest. I'm just fed up with him thinking he's all great and wonderful, when he's not!!_

She took a deep breath, knowing she was about to scream into the night air.

"Sydney!" Sark was running behind her. There was a touch of frustration in his tone, and that just made Sydney start to rant in her mind again.

"Would you have preferred if I hadn't told you, Syd?" she heard him say from behind her. Sydney whirled around, her hair flying out and whipping him in the face. She hadn't realized he was that close, but she didn't care either.

"No! I would have preferred if you had just not run away!" And with that, she ran away.

Sark followed her, and she felt his hands on her arm, pulling her back. Her eyes flashed her anger at him, and he released her.

"Sydney, you're right." He held up his hands in surrender. "You're right. I shouldn't have run away."

_Okay, he admitted it. Now what?_

"So why did you?" she asked, though her tone still hot. "I mean, how was I supposed to take that? You run away a few times, from all of us, and then you run off for a vacation—to escape, clear your head, whatever!—but I gave you the space." She pointed a finger at him, almost waving it at him to make her point. "I've been nothing but patient and I've tried to understand. But when you go off and practically sleep with some girl to escape, how is that supposed to make me feel?!"

He didn't say anything, but he suddenly found his shoes much more interesting. Sydney watched as he swallowed and raised his head to face her.

"You're right," he started.

"Don't tell me I'm right!" she yelled at him. "Tell me why! We've been back and forth on this relationship for how long? You shut me out after Scotland, you _kept_ me out after Alaska, and the first time I really have you opening up is when you've fooled around with some _waitress_ in the Bahamas!"

Sark clenched his fists, and took a deep breath. She was getting him angry, but she didn't care.

"Look, at the risk of you getting angrier with me, would you stop referring to her as 'some waitress'?" Sark said. Sydney's jaw dropped. "Regardless of what you think happened, she is still a decent person."

Stunned. Silence.

_I can't believe he just said that._ Her mouth hung open.

And then she swung a right hook at him. Her fist smacked against his face, and Sark's head snapped back. He stumbled but didn't fall, and Sydney just turned away from him, ready to call it quits.

Sydney speed-walked through the park, back towards the street and ready to go home. _To __L.A._ The charade was over. She would have to endure an 'I-told-you-so' speech from her father, but at least she wouldn't be miserable anymore.

Suddenly Sark was in front of her. Where he came from, she wasn't sure, but it startled her.

"Before you say a word, please just hear me out," Sark said. Sydney opened her mouth to object, but Sark shot her a pleading look. His cheekbone was red from her hit, and she couldn't help but smirk at that.

"You want to know why? There are so many reasons I ran. I tried to escape from everything, including myself." He must have run to catch up with her because he stopped to catch his breath. "I was an idiot to run. I thought it was to protect you, to protect my family. I thought I was doing the right thing to just disappear. And then I saw none of you would stand for that."

He took another breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "I don't know why I went to the Bahamas. I just needed to be alone."

Sydney opened her mouth to pin him on that one, but his hand clamped over her lips. His eyes were bright in the darkness. "Please," he said with a convincing stare. "Kora … yes, we spent time together. We formed some sort of bond because of the events around us. But she wasn't who I wanted."

_Does he think he can win me over with a cheesy pick-up line?_ They were beyond that, and Sydney was still itching to leave.

"The reason I'm … grateful I met her, is because she made me realize how much I need you."

_Damn. It's starting to work_

"I should never have run away. I should have turned to you, like you would have to me. Maybe old habits really die hard, because I was trying to be strong and alone. But I'm stronger when I'm with you."

Sydney was trying to blink back the tears she felt coming on. Her heart beat quickly and she wanted to hug him, but her pride kept her back. _Do I really want this?_

"Syd," he whispered. "I don't expect you to trust me right away. And I don't expect things to be perfect between us. But please . . . all I'm asking is that you give me a chance to be better."

Sydney tried to smile encouragingly, but started to shake her head. "Sark . . ."

"You can run away, Syd, but just like you found me, I'll find you," he said. A smile started to tug at his lips. "Call it stalking or whatever, but I have worse crimes on my record anyway."

She laughed, a short burst of release from the tension that ate at her heart. She started to nod, and as she did, Sark started to breathe more evenly.

"Okay," was all she said.

It was all she had to say.__


	21. Countdown

**Countdown**

"Can you crunch any louder?" Sydney asked, clearly annoyed. Sark looked up from his cereal.

"What?" With that, he took another bite, this time chewing with his mouth open to heighten the noise factor. Sydney rolled her eyes, and Sark just smirked.

"That's very mature, Sark," came a voice from the doorway. Sark looked up to see Alan, with an amused look on his face.

"Care to join us?" Sark invited, pushing a box of cereal towards his future brother-in-law. Alan grinned and sat down.

"Hey, I've a question for you two," Alan said thoughtfully as he took his first bite of the crunchy cereal. Sark noted with satisfaction that Alan sounded just as loud as he did.

Sydney noticed as well, and just rolled her eyes.

"Are you two ever going to get real jobs?"

All chewing stopped. Sark furrowed his brow, looking at Alan and Sydney.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Alan shrugged. "Well, I guess you could probably just retire, especially with your money, Sark, but I would think you'd get bored."

"Hmmm," was all the response he gave until he swallowed. "You know, Sydney will probably teach or something."

"No, I will not," she said firmly. That raised curious glances from both Alan and Sark. "Sure, I studied awhile to be a teacher, but I have no desire to do that."

Sark knew this sentiment probably stemmed from her mother's deception, but let it pass.

"So what do you want to do?" Sark asked. He reached across the kitchen table and poured himself a second bowl of cereal.

"Write," Sydney said with a nod. "I want to write books." Sark raised an eyebrow at that, just as Alan laughed. He tried to hide it, but Sydney heard him. She grabbed a piece of cereal from her bowl and chucked it at Alan.

"Oh good," Sark said at the assault. "I was beginning to think it was just me that annoyed her."

Alan glared at him. "I've been around here too long." Sark laughed.

"Sydney, _darling_," Sark started with extra charm, "I think you would be an excellent writer." She perked up at that. "Plus, you have plenty of stories to draw upon between our collective experiences. You could be the female Tom Clancy." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Tomilla Clancy."

Sydney stared at him. "Are you drunk?"

Sark shrugged. "Just on cereal and milk." She picked up another piece of cereal and launched it at him.

"What about you? What's Mr. Cold Spy going to do?" Sydney asked. Sark drained the milk from his bowl, sipping it quickly and then wiping his mouth.

"It's funny you should ask," he said. A mischievous grin came over his face. "I, actually, have considered teaching."

"Teaching what?" Alan asked with a chuckle.

"Languages—to high school students."

Sydney and Alan burst out laughing. Sark blinked and stared at the both of them.

"Something assumes you all?"

Sydney coughed on her cereal, the traces of fitful laughs still evident. "I forget you never went to high school, but you'd be in for a shock."

"You never went to high school?" Alan asked. Sark rolled his eyes.

"Not much. I ran away from home and became a spy when I was 16, remember?" He shot Alan a look.

"Oh, yeah."

Sydney cleared her throat, redirecting the conversation.

"So anyway," Sark said, picking up where he left off. "I think I could easily teach kids how to speak German, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin, Portuguese—"

"Sure, instead of counting to ten, you'll have them learn 'Freeze!,' 'gun,' and 'give me the artifact,'" Sydney quipped. Sark couldn't help but grin.

"What's wrong with that?"

Alan choked on his milk.

"Whatever you plan, Sark, just keep in mind that they are teenagers," Alan said. Sark just shrugged.

"Well, I'd have to make sure I leave the gun at home, lest I shoot them all, but I think I could manage them," he said with a grin.

Sydney stood up, collecting the bowls and dumping them in the kitchen sink.

"Let's spar," she said. Sark blinked hard.

"Pardon?"

"Spar. Now," she said, heading out of the kitchen.

"You know, you're supposed to allow your food time to digest before physical activity," Sark said. Sydney popped her head back in the kitchen to allow everyone to see her roll her eyes.

"Come on, you wimp," she said. "You've been too soft ever since you gave me that speech during our double date."

She left again. Alan looked inquisitively at Sark.

"What speech?"

--------

Calvin found his way outside in the morning air as Sydney and Sark readied themselves for the match. His hair was in twenty directions, but hey, that was Calvin for you.

Alan smiled at the younger sibling of his fiancé, and motioned for him to join him on the edge of the yard.

"What's going on?" Calvin asked with a yawn.

"Your brother and Sydney are going to fight," Alan answered. "Any bets?"

Calvin grinned.

Sydney abruptly sprung at Sark, landing an awkward jump just a meter before him and then swinging around and catching him in the side.

"I'm betting on Sydney at the moment," Calvin said.

"Me too."

She spun her body around, kicking out, then spinning again and kicking with her other leg. It was dizzying to watch, but entertaining since she kept hitting Sark. Alan muffled a laugh.

Sark did a back flip, giving himself distance and breathing time. His eyes were dark and challenging. Sydney advanced again.

He actually blocked the kick, twisted his body around and elbowed Sydney in the side. She hardly looked stunned from the blow.

_They must not be hitting full-strength._ Which was wise, but Alan wanted the free entertainment to be more real. Especially since watching Sark get his butt kicked is always fun.

"Hey Alan," Calvin said. Alan pulled his eyes from the swift fight between Sydney and Sark.

"Yeah."

And then Calvin didn't say anything. Alan glanced at him. Calvin was swiftly looking the part of a man, but there was something about him that just was off.

It was his confidence. While Ilene was headstrong, and Sark was cockier than any other human alive, Calvin was in the shadows. _Not your standard youngest child._ Sure, he goofed off, but lately, Alan noticed he was quieter.

"Cal, what is it?" he asked.

The blonde young man looked so much like his brother, but the stature of character in each was extremely different. Calvin shrugged.

"I think I want a girlfriend," he said finally. Alan almost laughed, but bit it back for Calvin's sake.

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugged again. "Just, you know, feeling weird." Alan pressed him with a look. "I mean, you and Ilene are, well, you know, and Sydney and Julian seem happy, and I just—I don't know."

"Feeling left out?" Alan asked. Calvin stared ahead as if he was unwilling to look Alan in the eye as he nodded.

Alan turned his eyes to the fight again, just in time to see Sark land on his back. As much as he wanted to make a joke about that, he restrained himself. Calvin needed some reassurance.

"You're still young, Cal. It's not like you're my age, or Sark's. You're, what, only 20, 21?" Alan said. Cal nodded.

"But I haven't had a girlfriend in . . . well, it's been awhile," he said. Alan wanted to laugh, but he tried _really_ hard not to.

"You don't have to have some girl latched onto your arm to be happy," Alan said. Calvin shot him a curious look, and Alan wanted to hit himself. "You're right, not the best thing to say. But, look at it this way. You've been moving around a lot, hiding from people . . . well, like me."

Calvin smiled.

"Yeah, I guess so," he consented. "I kind of want to get out of my bubble, you know? See the world, meet a girl, and then become a recluse like Sydney and Julian."

It was Alan's turn to shoot him a look.

"Well, they don't have to go out much anymore to find someone to be with," Calvin justified.

"Why don't you go out then? Meet someone, ask her out, something like that," Alan said. Calvin shrugged again.

"Last time I approached a girl, she turned out to be an assassin trying to use me to kill Julian."

_Damn. Walked right into that one_. The kid did have a point.

"Listen, Calvin," Alan said, his tone as sincere and serious as he could make it, even though he just saw Sark hit air instead of Sydney. "You can't rush this. You'll find someone, I promise. It just might not be on your terms."

He seemed to chew on that wisdom for a moment. Or several moments. Finally, though, he nodded and a slow smile spread over his face.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Look at Sydney—she hated Julian. If she had her way, he probably would have been killed long ago."

Alan allowed himself to laugh at last. He patted Calvin on the back, and turned to focus on the fight.

"Exactly," he said.

Sydney blocked one of Sark's hits, and then went to land one in his stomach. But Sark blocked it and threw his weight at her. She lost her balance and fell to the grass.

"Yes!" Sark yelled, his arms in the air like a winning boxer. Alan grinned. Then Sydney kicked her leg in the air and down again, to catch Sark's mass. He grunted and fell down next to Sydney.

Alan just clapped as he and Calvin laughed.

---------

The past couple of weeks were . . . good. Ever since their argument in the park, Sydney seemed closer to him.

Granted, she was still cautious, but Sark suspected that would be the case for awhile. Ilene's wedding helped alleviate the awkwardness, since it gave them a break from each other. Sydney spent a decent amount of time helping his sister to fret over details.

He didn't quite understand why there were so many details. Because of, well, him, this wedding was extremely small. Alan's family, Sark's family, Sydney, her dad (if he chose to come), and maybe a friend here and there were all that were coming.

But no. Never was it just simple, even when small. Already, Ilene had a wedding chapel and reception hall reserved. She and Alan were choosing their menu for the occasion right now.

Sark shook his head, a smile on his face. Ilene was happy, and that's all that mattered. His mom was happy too, although frantically getting the house cleaned up and ready for when Alan's family arrived in two weeks.

Sark dropped some pants and shirts in a small suitcase. He was on his way to Los Angeles tonight.

"So when will you be back?" Sydney asked. She entered his room slowly, her eyes on the bag. She didn't look him in the eye much, but Sark knew that comfort would come eventually.

"Two days," he said calmly. "That should be enough time to get my funds in order."

"Are you . . . okay, financially?" Sydney asked suddenly. Sark shot her a look.

"Of course I am," he answered. "I just need to get things situated so I have easier access up here." It was the truth. Money was hardly ever an issue for him.

"I just thought that maybe you were thinking about the job thing because . . . well, because—"

"Because I'm broke?" Sark filled in. "Hardly the case. Although I was somewhat serious about the whole teacher issue. I think it'd be good to do something other than fret about you all being safe."

She smiled at that.

"All right," she said, moving to leave. But she stopped. "Do you need any help?" They both knew he was more than capable of packing on his own, but the question at least meant something to Sark.

"Actually, could you help me dye my hair?" Sark said. She smiled evilly at that, and Sark suddenly wanted to retract the request.

"Fire-engine red or purple?" she teased. He shot her another look.

"Black, please."

--------

Sark wasn't sure why, but he actually liked the black hair—mainly when it started to grow out and his blonde roots showed. But it didn't matter. The black hair was just for a day more anyway.

So far, his trip to Los Angeles had been very successful. No one recognized him and no one seemed to be looking for him. His assets were moving where he wanted them to and now he relaxed in his hotel room.

There was something else he had to do. He'd volunteered to hand-deliver Ilene and Alan's wedding invitation to Jack Bristow. Right now he was just trying to gather his strength, mental and physical, to deal with that confrontation.

He had to do it sooner or later.

_Might as well stop stalling._

He grabbed a bottle of wine and headed to Jack's. He figured a little gift might be in order.

When Jack answered the door, Sark gulped. The man was as stone-faced as ever. Sark briefly hoped the fact that he and Sydney were dating would win some favor, but then again, he had run away from her.

_Did she tell him about Kora?_ Sark swallowed again.

"Jack," he said smoothly, hiding his insecurities. "Wine?" He quickly held up a bottle of Petreuse, a 1990. Jack seemed to like that year before, and Sark hoped it'd curry some favor for him.

Jack motioned for Sark to come in. As it was the last time he saw Jack, the apartment was immaculate. Sark put the bottle down on the kitchen counter, and pulled out his sister's wedding invitation to place next to it.

That's when Jack swung. Sark turned just in time to catch the man's fist with his face. The force behind it swiveled Sark back, and he caught himself from falling on the kitchen counter.

Sark tried to clear his vision. _What was that?!_

"Thanks, Jack," he said, his voice a little shaky. "Nice to see you too."

"Shut up, Sark," Jack said. He grabbed Sark by the shirt and suddenly flung him across the room. Sark hit the floor on his back, and slid a good two meters before stopping. His breath was ragged now.

_Crap. He must know._

"Jack—"

"I trusted you with my daughter," he said in a low voice. He quickly crossed the room to Sark. Sark tried to get to his feet, but Jack was at his side, and basically stepped on him.

Sark's body pressed against the floor. _Fight back!_

_Are you nuts? He's the father of the woman you love! Fighting back isn't going to win you points, especially since you plan on—_

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Jack seethed. He towered over Sark, who didn't plan on getting up anytime soon just to be knocked back down.

"Would beating me make you feel better, Jack?" Sark asked from the floor.

"Yes." There was no hesitation in the answer.

Sark sighed. "All right. But before you do, can I just say two things, while I can still speak?" Jack didn't nod, but Sark took the momentary pause as a 'yes.' He noticed from the corner of his eye that Jack's face was bright red. _Ready to kill me, no doubt._ Sark took a deep breath. "One, there's an invitation to my sister's wedding by the bottle of wine. And, two: would you be opposed to me asking Sydney to marry me?"

The last thing he saw was Jack's fist coming down at him.


	22. A Week of Insanity in All Its Forms

a/n: Thanks to sallene throughout this series and with this chapter for all her help!

**The Week of Insanity in All Its Forms**

The bruising on his face raised some questions and eyebrows, but Sark managed to lie convincingly to his family and especially to Sydney. He wasn't about to share with her the confrontation he and her dad had. The only thing that Sark had to admit after that painful encounter was that Jack Bristow could still pack a punch.

He smirked. _He'll be an intimidating threat even when he's 98 years old._

"Julian! Please!! Pay attention!" Ilene let out a very unladylike groan. Sark quickly smiled and nodded to what she was saying.

_Speeches._ He wasn't sure why she was so worried about giving one, but she stood before Sark on the fireplace mantel, with an imaginary glass raised as she practiced some lines.

"Ilene, aren't the speeches for the best man and maid-of-honor?"Sark asked. He held back a bored sigh.

Ilene froze. "You're right." She seemed defeated for a moment, and Sark had to smirk at that. Suddenly she brightened up. "What about _your_ speech? You should say this . . ."

Sark groaned and listened to his sister's giddiness.

He wished the wedding was over with already.

Suddenly Sark noticed that Ilene's talking ceased. He looked up at her, and followed her gaze to the doorway.

Sydney watched the two with an amused grin.

"Could I steal Sark for a bit?" Sydney asked. Sark's relief must have been obvious, because Ilene glared at him. He merely smirked at his sister and confidently got to his feet.

"If you'll excuse me, Ilene," he said politely. It just made her shriek with frustration.

Sydney laughed when they were out of earshot.

"Thanks, Syd," Sark said, flashing her what he hoped was a charming smile. She smiled back.

"Well, it's not just a rescue," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I actually wanted to tell you something."

She walked on, leading him outside to the privacy of the back yard.

"What is it?" Sark asked. He felt tension run through his body. Sydney faced him, a secretive grin on her face.

"You have an interview at the high school in an hour," she said. Sark felt his stomach drop.

"Excuse me?"

"They are interested in meeting with a teacher who can potentially teach German, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin and Portuguese," Sydney said. Her eyes were light, while his were dark with . . . apprehension. He was dumbfounded.

Sure, they'd joked about teaching, but he wasn't serious. _Was I?_ He thought it'd be neat, but he hadn't thought about it at all since they spoke of it.

"Sydney, there are requirements, certifications . . . I don't—"

Suddenly she held up a manila envelope. _Where did that come from?_ Sark wondered.

"They're all here, forged under the name Julian Patricks."

Sark raised an eyebrow at that. The last name was the same as his previous alias, but yet she chose to keep his first name.

"You're from London, but have relocated here because of family," Sydney said, citing off his cover story. "'Sark' is a nick-name, one that no one will call you except for me. And maybe Alan." She had a full-teethed grin now. Sark started to smile.

_You can do this._

"I better change then," he said, glancing down at his jeans. Sydney nodded.

And an hour later, he found himself a few miles away, sitting in front of four high school administrators. Sark gulped.

If they asked him to shoot someone, he would feel better, but somehow he doubted that. Instead, they asked questions—about _him_.

"Mr. Patricks," a tall man started, "what made you come to Drayton?" The other three stared at him intently.

Sark swallowed briefly and quickly swiped his hands over his suit pants.

"Family," he said stiffly. _It's not a lie! And if it were, you're a professional!_ "They moved here not long ago, and London just isn't the same without them." His sudden charm must have made the statement believable.

"How sweet," one administrator said. It was an older woman, probably in her forties. Sark smiled at her.

The tall one coughed. "So you teach . . ." He waved his hand in loops, as if prompting Sark. It annoyed him immensely.

"I'm fluent in German, Russian, Mandarin, Portuguese and Japanese, among other languages," Sark filled in.

"How did you learn so many languages?"

Sark smiled. "I've traveled extensively," he said simply.

"What did you do before coming to Alberta?"

_Stole, murdered, ran for my life. . . ._ "Various things," he answered vaguely. _Time for a lie_. "I've found that I just love languages, and pick them up very easily."

The tall one intercepted again with a cough. "But can you teach them?"

_Ah, the question of ability_, Sark thought with a smirk.

"Well, I prefer not to teach them all during one semester," Sark said. "I find that when I teach more than three languages at a time, the students really don't receive my full attention and efforts." The administrators, except for the tall one, looked at him in awe.

_I didn't answer the question, but they've forgotten that already._

_ Perfect deflection._

"I can teach French as well," Sark said, "but I imagine you already have a teacher for that." The tall one finally nodded.

"We do," he said, trying to be authoritative. Suddenly the older woman spoke up.

"But we'd love to have you on board as our other language teacher," she said.

Sark nodded. "I appreciate that."

He left the interview with a schedule for the upcoming school year, and with the promise of returning in a week with tentative teaching schedules planned for German, Mandarin and Russian.

He breathed in deeply as he got to his car.

And then he just laughed.

----------

Wedding bells, wedding bells. Sydney always imagined that they'd sound more . . . happy. Instead they sounded like doom, but that didn't lessen the smiles on Ilene's or Alan's faces. They were positively beaming.

They walked down red carpet like celebrities at an award show. Ilene waved to everyone as if they were a crowd of a thousand people, instead of just two families and one photographer.

The ceremony was simple yet elegant. Ilene cried, and even Alan looked misty. His family smiled and his mom was teary, as was Ilene's. Even Calvin looked sentimental.

But Sark was not. He showed his little reserved smile, as if he was being polite at a bad joke. Sydney frowned at him. _What's wrong with him?_

The families made their way to the reception hall, where waiters and waitresses were ready with far more food than all of them could eat together. Sydney's jaw dropped at the decorations. It was simply beautiful, with pastel green and peach adorning the reception hall, and matching flowers on the tables. Soft music played in the background, just above the noise of a bubbling fountain. The families started to mingle as they waited for the couple to arrive.

Sydney watched with amusement as Alan's mother approached Sark. Sydney slyly moved closer to hear the conversation.

"Alan tells me your family moved from Ireland," Mrs. Yielding asked. "What made you leave?"

Sydney almost snickered.

"Work," Sark said quickly.

"Oh really?" Mrs. Yielding continued. "What do you do, Julian?"

Sydney stole a look at him, and he actually looked pleased as he answered that question.

"I teach languages," he said. "Or I will. My girlfriend actually arranged for the job."

_Girlfriend._ It was accurate. But hearing Sark say that was just . . . odd. Sydney shrugged it off. Sark seemed delighted when the teaching job came through. School wouldn't start for another month, but in the past few days, Sydney often found Sark busy planning out lessons and schedules in his room.

A part of her was proud of him. Despite what she used to think of him, he could actually give up the spy life. He could actually be happy doing something else. She couldn't help but smile as she watched him.

Alan and Ilene arrived, amidst cheers from their families and the reception hall staff. Sydney watched as Sark went up to his sister and whispered something in her ear. She beamed and hugged her brother. Then Sark turned to Alan, and offered a hand.

Sydney laughed when Alan pulled Sark into a hug. She went up to the newly-weds to offer her own congratulations.

"Sydney!" Ilene exclaimed. She hugged her tight, and Sydney couldn't help but think of her as being closer than just a friend. _More like a sister_.

"I'm so happy for you two," Sydney said. "When do you all leave for your honeymoon?"

Ilene turned to Alan. "He hasn't told me yet!" She punched her husband playfully.

Alan just nodded to Sark.

"Actually, Julian insisted on taking care of it," Alan said. Sydney raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sark.

He looked very suave in his black tuxedo, his bowtie just slightly too loose, and his blonde hair darker than usual from all the dye he'd used lately. He showed a crooked, mischievous grin, with his blue eyes shining with amusement.

"Remember how I owed you your Christmas present?" Sark said. Ilene nodded eagerly. "Well, I intended for you and me to take a trip, and just show you some of the better things I discovered while I was gone." He glanced at Alan. "However, I thought you might enjoy it more now with your husband."

Her eyes widened.

"So," Alan took over, "Julian is flying us on a private jet to Australia, New Zealand and Fiji, and we'll be staying at each place for a week in 6-star hotels and luxurious bungalows."

Ilene squealed. Sydney couldn't believe Sark was doing all of it. _He basically gave them their honeymoon_.

Not that he couldn't afford it, but still, she was impressed.

And Ilene was obviously touched. She grabbed her brother and hugged him tight again while a chorus of awe ran through the room.

"Wow," Sydney heard behind her, "Ilene's brother must be rich!"

She held back a laugh.

Things just dissolved and passed by after that. Sydney chatted with Alan's family, cheered up Calvin, and consoled a sobbing mother "losing" her only daughter. After awhile, Sydney found it was late and that she was more than ready to leave.

"Hey," she heard next to her. Sydney looked away from her drink to see Sark. He smiled and took a seat by her. Sydney's heart almost sighed in relief. _Someone I can just relax around._

"Tired?" he asked. She nodded.

"But I've been playing nice," she said. "You?"

He smiled. "I've been very good. I haven't shot anyone yet."

"Well, the night is young," Sydney added. The two shared a warm look, until Sydney looked away at Alan and Ilene. They swayed to whatever music played over the speakers.

"I'm sorry my dad couldn't make it," Sydney said. "He said the CIA had something come up." There was a note of disbelief in her tone, she knew. She really wanted to see him, here with Sark's family. In her mind, maybe it was some form of acceptance of what she was doing with her life.

"He told me he wasn't coming," Sark said all of a sudden. Sydney's head whipped around to face him.

"What?" _How could Dad have told him, when he told—_

"When I gave him the invitation, in L.A.," Sark explained. "I don't blame him, really." He looked off at his sister as he spoke. "It was more to do with me than anything."

"What do you mean?" she asked. Sydney leaned closer to him, quickly swiping at her hair.

"Remember that bruise I came back with?" Sark had a gleam in his eyes. Sydney gasped.

"You said you got hit by some overhead luggage!"

Sark started to laugh and that just about made her mad.

"No, it was your dad," he admitted. "But in his defense, I _did_ deserve it."

He was speaking in riddles as far as she was concerned, and it was starting to annoy Sydney that she couldn't get what he was saying.

"Why?"

"Well, you know, because I was being a jerk to you and running away and all," he said casually. Then he ran a hand through his hair, and _damn! He looks so good!_ That bowtie on the tux was undone now, and the way it just nonchalantly hung around his neck was starting to distract Sydney.

She blinked hard.

"Oh, that," she said to fill the silence her awkward staring created.

"Yes, and also because I asked your dad if he'd mind if I married you someday," he said. "Of course, he just hit me again after I said that, but if our situations were reversed, I might have done the same thing."

"Oh—wait, what?" _Did he just say . . ._ "Can you repeat that?" Sydney asked. Sark just smiled.

"Well, I asked Jack what he thought of me being his son-in-law one day," Sark said coyly. His lips started to smirk or smile; Sydney couldn't tell which. "After he finished swearing and punching me, I think he actually warmed up to the idea. What do you think?"

Sydney was . . . She couldn't believe . . . He was being so laid-back about this! Half of her mind questioned if he was even serious.

Suddenly Sark leaned forward and caught her hands in his. The smirk disappeared and the most solemn expression took its place.

"Sydney." He stopped, just watching her blink profusely. "I'm not saying right now, or any sooner than you're ready. But I really would greatly appreciate it if you considered me as your future husband."

Her mouth dropped and her eyes narrowed at him suspiciously.

"You! Would you just stop being robo-tron here and just tell me straight out what you're saying!" Sydney's breathing and heart rate sky-rocketed beyond their already agitated states. Sark squeezed her hands and scooted closer to her.

"Sydney, I'm asking you to marry me," he said softly. His blue eyes were suddenly doubtful, fearful. Sydney stared into them, and as she did, her heart all of a sudden just stopped.

And then she knew.

----------

Calvin almost choked on his drink as Sydney practically leapt at Julian and started devouring his lips. Once he regained his ability to swallow and breathe separately, he snickered.

_They're making out!! _

He almost choked again on his drink.

_Well, at least they're happy_, he thought. Everyone knew they were in some sort of fight, but based on what Calvin saw now, that must have been resolved.

He sighed as he looked around the reception hall. Ilene was changing into something more comfortable, and then she and Alan were going to leave. His parents and Alan's parents were chatting in one corner by the half-eaten wedding cake. Alan's siblings talked amongst themselves. And his only other sibling was _still_ making out with Sydney.

He sighed again. Calvin hated to admit it, but he was lonely. It wouldn't be long before he was alone. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do in life, or who he wanted to be with.

He didn't really have a lot of choices there either. And that certainly didn't help him feel better.

_Dude, you should just be happy that everyone else is happy._

_ Yeah, but what about me?_

He sighed and downed the rest of his drink. He set the glass down on a table and as he looked up, he froze.

_Who is _that!

She had blonde hair that was cut just below her jaw line, and it swished as she moved. She must have been a waitress, because she was gathering dishes and was dressed in black and white.

_Her eyes_. They were perfect, beautifully dark yet vibrant. Calvin stared at her as she made her way to the table he just left his glass on.

His heart beat up faster and faster, until she grabbed the glass and put it on a tray she carried.

"Hi," she said politely. Calvin almost died right there. Her voice might as well have been a honey-coated bell, singing to him, bringing him closer to her.

"Um, hi," he said, trying to shake himself out of his trance. He let his eyes wander over her face. It was flawless to him, yet occasionally peppered with light freckles that just complimented her fair skin. "Gosh, you're beautiful."

He instantly looked to the floor, as if it would voice to him how stupid and lame that sounded. Calvin turned away, ready to hide in the parking lot.

"Wait," he heard over his shoulder. Cal slowly turned back to face the waitress.

"What's your name?" she asked with a smile. Slowly, Calvin allowed himself to breathe.

"Calvin," he said. "And yours?"

"Amber."

_Amber. Like fossilized honey_, Calvin thought. He didn't glance anywhere else in the room, not at his newly-wed sister, not at his brother or his spy-girlfriend, not anywhere that could compete with the goddess in front of him.

A twinge of happiness started to fill him with each word he and Amber started to share.

_I think I'm in love._

The End

A/N: Wow. I had no idea when I started "Choice" that I would expand that story to follow so many characters and develop it all into two sequels. But I've loved this. Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, and encouraging me as I wrote these!

DFerveiro


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